My Way Home
by Hotshot
Summary: It's a fact, New York is a cold, cruel place to grow up without a family. Luckily these twenty boys found something more important, friends. Hear their stories form the ones that lived them. Currently featuring Spot Conlon
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: You all know I don't own the newsies.  I'm still in High School and I only work weekends for minimum wage.  Therefore, no money.  I own any character whose name does not appear in the credits of the movie.  This includes Hotshot, any parents, siblings, other family/friends/enemies, or girlfriends.  Except for an occasional few.  I'll let ya know at the top of the chapter if I own 'em. 

My Way Home

Prologue

By Hotshot

            Winter was the worst time for newsies every year.  Even though there were holidays, which meant generous people on the streets it also meant blizzards, a need for heavier clothes, which no one could afford, and countless days where they couldn't sell.  These were the days before or after a blizzard.  No one was on the streets and those that were weren't the kind of people who would stop and buy a paper.  No those people were only out when it was warm, sunny, and there was no chance of them getting their precious clothes dirty.

            On these days the newsies stayed at the lodging house at Kloppman's request.  Those who went out were more likely to get sick.  Losing a newsie or two every winter was normal for each borough.  Thankfully, it didn't commonly happen in Kloppman's lodging house.  There had been a few close calls over the past few years.  A few of the boys would go out selling when Kloppman warned them, not too and came back sick.

            Living in the lodging house for many years most of the boys were tired of the closed quarters very quickly.  There were only so many things you could do before they became boring.  The younger boys were the only ones who could always entertain themselves; they never got sick of endless games of marbles.  The older boys were usually restless, and the girls that sometimes lodged there were the same way.  Occasional visits from Spot and other outsiders were appreciated.  

            By the time she'd been there for a few years Hotshot was used to this, therefore, she was always prepared.  She'd save her money during the summer and buy several thick novels to read when they were stuck inside.  She could spend hours reading to herself, the younger children, and even some of the older boys.  

            This year was different though, because it was the last.  Many of the strike newsies were leaving after the next summer to find better jobs or start families.  Don't take it the wrong way, everyone was glad that they were getting better jobs and moving on, but the group had become somewhat of a family over the past few years.  It was in thinking about this second family that Hotshot stumbled upon a very important and surprising fact.  She didn't know how many of them had become newsies, or gotten their names.  Granted some were easy to guess, but others had stories behind them, and every newsie had a story of their life before Manhattan.

            She would have just asked one of the guys about it but realized they'd each have a different version of the story, and that their version would only start when they became a newsie.  She wanted every story, starting with the very first newsie to live under Kloppman's roof.

            When she brought up the subject one evening she got looks from everyone.  Some exchanged looks and others just looked nervous.  Jack, being their leader came up with an idea.  Every day that Kloppman kept them in from selling one boy would tell his story.  They'd go in order of who came to the lodging house first.  The only problem was, no one could remember who was the first one of them to find their home.

                 The next morning Kloppman didn't wake them and when everyone found themselves in some consciousness they remembered their plans for the day.  When David, Les, and Spot arrived they sent David downstairs to get a list from Kloppman.  The night before they'd asked the old man to make a list in the order of their arrivals.  He had told them it would be done by morning and as promised it was.  David returned with the list grasped tightly in his hand and handed it to Jack.  Everyone crowded around to see the first name and all eyes fell on the holder of that name.

            "Ah you kiddin' me?" he questioned.

            Not sure if he meant he couldn't believe he was the first one there or that he meant he didn't want to tell it they all sat in silence, waiting for him to begin.

            "Alright," he said, obviously thinking hard about it.  "I ain't gonna tell you no fairy tale version a me life and I expect all youse bums ta do the same when you tell youse stories…"

            With that, the winter of 1902 started, and along with it twenty stories of twenty young boys from New York.

            A/N: OK, so basically each chapter is going to be a story of one of the guys and there will be a little bit after it's done.  I have main story ideas but not the entire story for each person so it might take a while.  Think you can guess the order that they became newsies in.  I have a nice set order including all the guys on the soundtrack, which includes those who don't live there (David, Les, and Spot.)  I'd love to see whom you guys think was the first newsie at the lodging house.  That means I want you to guess in the review.  Oh, yeah, I will officially be changing my pen name to Hotshot after I finish my first story 'Past Secrets and Present Times.'  Hope I get some reviews for this even though it's short. Thanks!

                                                                                                            ~Megan~~~

                                                                                                             ~Hotshot~~~

P.S. Oops! Almost forgot.  In your review guess which newsie is going to be telling his story first.  Thanks!


	2. Anthony 'Racetrack' Higgins

My Way Home

Chapter 1

By Hotshot

Anthony 'Racetrack' Higgins

            Not many people can remember things that happened when they were young, two or three-years-old.  Anthony Higgins was one of the many exceptions to this rule.  Through his entire life he remembered moments from the times when he had a family.  When he was young he didn't think about them much and as he got older he tried to block them out.  When he did think about it he understood why his parents had done what they did.  Did he wish he'd spent more time with them?  Of course.  But did he wish they hadn't brought him here? No, this was his life and he loved it.  He always had that picture to remind him he had a family and the account at the bank.

            He had an Irish name, yes, but his family was Italian.  His father had been one-fourth Irish; through some streak of luck his great-grandfather and his grandfather had both had sons to pass on the name.  Other than that he was only Italian and that was how he looked.  He had traditionally dark hair, skin, and eyes, plus that attitude.  

            Anthony was born in Queens, contrary to popular belief.  His parents lived in a small apartment building because they had just moved from Italy.  His father found a job at a factory relatively quickly but the place already felt like home so they stayed there.  Many families there had just emigrated from other countries so there was a sea of languages and always someone to baby-sit.  Anthony's parents insisted that Italian be his first language, but taught him as much English as they could.  By the age of one, maybe one-and-a-half, he had an extremely large vocabulary for someone his age, mainly Italian.  A few months after he turned two Anthony's mother was pregnant with her second child.

            "Tony," she asked one day, very early in the pregnancy just out of curiosity, "Do you thins Mama's going to have a boy or a girl?"

            "I have a little sister." He said plainly, before going back to playing with his toy horse.

            "Well," his father, Joseph said, "Since the psychic has spoken it looks like we're going to have a little girl."  He placed a hand on his wife's stomach, smiling.

            Anthony spent every day with his mother, while his father worked in the factory.  She let Tony help her cook and showed him how to sew up old clothes.  He was very young when he began to count and learn numbers.  His mother, Olivia, would just smile when he counted for her and recited his A, B, C's.  

            "Someday we are going to send you to school," she told him often, "You'll be better off here than me or your Papa was.  Maybe you could be a teacher or a reporter for The World."

            The little boy stuck his tongue out making his mother laugh.  That was just the reason he did it, but at the time he did not see how appropriate it was for him.

            Another job aspiration soon came, a lawyer.  Sure they aren't called the terrible two's for nothing but Tony could be a little terror.  He ran around the apartment making so much noise and was quick with coming up with something to say.  He could argue himself out of almost any punishment.

            His mother was not without work either.  She was teaching many of the women in the building how to sew.  Tony hated it when the older women would come to the house and take his mama away from him.  At first he just sat and pouted until they left, but over time he realized they weren't going to stop coming.  He then spent the time playing with a group of little boys who lived on his floor.

            In one way it was good because it wore him out and he was quiet when his father came home tired from work.  On the other hand everyone knows the little boy had a big mouth, and little boys love to fight.  There were many nights that he came home with a bloody lip or black eye.  On these nights he was sent to bed early in hopes of discouraging the behavior.

            While the weeks were spent in the apartment with his mother weekends were reserved for Tony's father.  Joseph loved to go to the tracks.  He sat in the stands for hours every Saturday watching the races, just watching, and never betting.  Most days he brought Tony with him.  The few times he did bet Joseph was teaching Tony how to do it.  

            "You pick a horse and give this guy the money," he explained, "And if your horse wins you get your money and other peoples back."

            "I pick a horse Papa?" he asked staring wide-eyed down at the line up.

            "Sure," Joseph pulled a nickel out of his pocket, "Which one?"  He proceeded to read the names of the horses off of the program.

            "Little Italy!" Race exclaimed.  Hearing the horse's name reminded him of home.

            "Five cents on Little Italy," he told the man.  The father and son sat down close to the rail to watch the race and Joseph pointed their horse out to his son.  When the race started Tony stood on his chair, yelling along with the crowd.  His father sat behind him, laughing.  He laughed even harder when Little Italy crossed the finish line first.

            The two entered their apartment happier than ever that evening.  

            "Look what we won at the tracks today, Olivia," Joseph said, placing a small pile of change on the table.

            She turned around, "You were betting!  I thought I told you not to do that anymore!"

            "No Olivia, it's alright.  Tony asked me why people were getting money and I showed him how it works.  I let him pick a horse and we won."

            Her frown softened to a smile and she said, "Well if he turns in to a addict I blame you."

            "Don't worry, I won't let him bet that much." 

            "You better not," she warned scooping up her son, "Do you want to help Mama finish dinner Tony?"

            "Yeah," he said, "My horse won Mama!" 

            "I heard.  Did you have fun with your papa today?"

            "Lotsa fun!"

            "Speak properly Anthony."

            "We had lots of fun Mama."

            "That's better."

            The family also started a tradition.  On Sundays they would spend a few hours walking around the city.  Anthony loved to see the different things being sold on the streets and in shops.  He was also somewhat attracted to the dice and card games young boys played, which made his mother arch an eyebrow at his father.  The dancing gypsies and the yelling newsboys always captured Tony's attention.  One Sunday night every month they would go out to eat.  They had enough money to go to more expensive places, but enjoyed one small café the most.  Tibby's was the restaurant in Manhattan where they had first eaten in America.  The food was cheap, and very good, ant the waiters were very nice.  It didn't bother them at all that some of the people there were extremely poor.

            The winter Anthony turned three was very cold.  Mama was in bed a lot due to a difficult pregnancy.  This was where Tony had learned many of the stories he told others.  He usually played in her bedroom while she stitched some of his clothes, or his fathers.  He learned a lot about Italy and his family members back there.  He had a cousin, Jeffery, who was only one-year-old.

            Olivia never went out unless she had to, usually to go grocery shopping.  After one of these occasions she found herself sick with a horrible cold that was going around at work.  She was worried because it was bad for the baby and she didn't want Tony to catch it.

            The baby came in February.  Tony was awakened in the middle of the night by his mother's screaming.  He found his father sitting in the kitchen.

            "Papa, what's wrong with Mama?" he asked.

            His father smiled, "The doctors with her, and you know what?"

            "What?" Tony asked, slightly scared.

            "He told me that by the end of the night you're going to have a little sister." He left off the or brother that the doctor had mentioned because due to Tony's decision they had decided that it was definitely a girl.

            Tony climbed into his father's lap.  "What's her name gonna be, Papa?"

            "I think your mother and I decided on Rosalyn."

            "That's a pretty name," he yawned.

            "Maybe you should go back to bed."

            "But I wanna see my sister," Tony complained as his father stood and carried him back into his room.

            "I'll come get you when she's born, until then stay in here and try to sleep a little more."

            "Mr. Higgins?"

            Tony's father gave him a warning look and went to meet the doctor in the kitchen.  The older man whispered into Joseph's ear and a worried look came over his face.  As soon as they had disappeared into his parents bedroom Tony snuck to the door with a new curiosity.

            A few minutes later the doctor left the room with his bag and a small bundle of cloth in his arms.  Tony's father showed him out and then stood against the door for a moment before returning to his wife.  Little Anthony almost cried himself when he heard his mother begin to cry.  He pulled open his door and scurried (picture lil' Race doin' this) into his parents room.  His father held his mother in his arms speaking to her quietly.  His mother was still crying though not as hard as before.

            "Mama?  Papa?" Tony asked from the doorway.

            His mother saw him and almost smiled, "Come here Anthony."

            He ran into the room and climbed up on the bed.  He didn't see a new sister anywhere but figured he might make his mother start crying again if he asked.  She hugged him close to her and stared blankly into space.  Joseph put an arm around her and with the other messed up Tony's hair.

            He found out later that the baby had been stillborn and, yes, it was a girl.  His mother seemed depressed for a while, especially if she saw a woman who was pregnant or a young child.  She went back to sewing lessons to keep her mind off of what had happened.  She paid more attention to Tony than ever and the two of them began daily walks around the area.

            It was two months later that Joseph found himself out of a job.  His employer had found he had more people than he could pay and fired several people at random.  The couple figured that they could live off of their savings for a while and Joseph could find another job.  For a few weeks he searched everywhere for a job but no one was hiring.  They wrote family member, reluctantly asking for help.

            About a month after Joseph had been fired they received a letter from his brother and sister-in-law whom had settled in Boston.  They were inviting the couple to stay with them until they could get back on their feet.  It was on that same day that their landlord told them they had to be out by the next morning.

            Tony knew of his family's financial trouble and wished he could help, but being only 3 ½ there wasn't much he could do.  He sat in bed that night listening to his parents talk.

            "I would love to go to Boston Joseph, really I would, but they said we couldn't bring Tony.  There isn't enough room, and it's too much money to bring him on the train.  And if we walk or ride carriages we'll run out of money before we get there." Olivia told her husband.

            "Maybe he could stay here," Joseph said thoughtfully.

            "Joseph!"

            "Listen to me for a minute Olivia." He didn't let her continue, "Some other people have left their children at orphanages with specific instructions.  They go, build a good life and then either come back and get them or send for them.  We could come back for Tony as soon as we have our own place and enough money."

            "Joseph, I am not leaving my son alone in New York!  God knows what could happen to him!"

            "Olivia, please, listen to me," his father sounded worn out, "I don't like the idea of leaving him any more than you do, but it may be our only choice.  If we bring him with us we risk him dying of sickness or getting lost along the way.  You know how he likes to wander.  At least if he's in New York he'll know where he is.  You know he knows his way around here better than either of us.  And I promise, we'll come back for him as soon as we're ready."

            The ideas of what could happen to Tony his mother seemed to understand it was the only way.  "Alright," she agreed, "But we have to find the right place for him."

            As his parents started toward his room Tony curled up and pretended to be asleep.  He didn't understand what those words meant but he would remember them and know their meaning when he got older.

            The next morning the family packed the few things they owned and went to the orphanage.  Tony's mother carried him in her arms.  Joseph walked into an office with one of the workers who ran the establishment.  Meanwhile Olivia looked around.

            "Mama," Tony asked, "Are we here to find Rosalyn."

            The woman sucked in a breath, "No sweetie, we're not."  The more she looked around the place the less she liked it.  It was extremely dirty and she was certain she saw one of the workers kick a child.  The children were all underfed and older ones got what they want by beating on the younger ones.

            She walked up to her husband and plainly told him, "My son is not staying here."

            He just nodded, "Then we'll find somewhere else." He shook his head as they left the building. 

            "Youse lookin' for sumplace to leave youse kid?" a voice asked.

            The parents turned to find a boy of about fourteen standing on the corner, "You should try the newsboys lodgin' house over by the statue a Greeley.  Kloppman'll take 'im an' make sure he don't get hurt."

            The couple thanked the young boy and headed in that direction.  The old man saw them come in and asked in his hoarse as ever voice, "Can I help you?"

            "We need someplace to leave our son," Joseph explained their situation and explained about the money they'd sent through the bank.  

            Kloppman nodded, "A course he can stay here.  I'll send him ta school 'til he's old enough to sell."

            Figuring they'd be back long before then the couple agreed.  They spent an hour saying goodbye to their son and it was the one part of his life that Tony barely remembered.

            After his parents left Tony spent the rest of the day in the office with Kloppman.  The current leader, Maple, came in, followed by a dozen or so other boys.

            He smiled, seeing Tony, "Who's the kid?"

            "Parents left him and went up to Boston.  They'll be back for him eventually."  Kloppman said.

            Maple and the other boys sat down around the room.  Tony just made himself comfortable between Maple and the boy who'd told his parents to try the lodging house.

            Maple laughed, "What's youse name, Kid?"

            "Tony," he answered, not at all intimidated, but then you have to remember who this kid's gonna grow up to be.

            "Tony," Maple frowned, "We'se gonna hafta come up wit' a newsie name for ya, but for now we'll jus' call ya Kid."

            "Ok," he liked these people.

            "Ambition," Maple spoke to the boy on Tony's other side, "It's youse job ta take care a this one."  

            Ambition just nodded, smiling down at Tony.  The boys spent the rest of the afternoon showing Tony around the place.

            It wasn't until that night that Race wondered where his parents were.  If his mother went out she was always home by the time he went to bed.  He stumbled over to Ambition's bed.

            "Ambition?"

            The boy rolled over, "Yeah Kid?"

            "When are my parents comin' back?"

            The tears in Tony's eyes made Ambition realize that he didn't know his parents had left for a long time.  He decided it was best to be truthful, "They ain't?"

            Tony's lip quivered ands he looked ready to cry.  

            "C'mere," Ambition pulled Tony up on his bunk, "They'se gonna come back and get youse eventually but youse gonna stay here and live wit' us for a while, ok."

            Tony nodded, still looking upset.

            "Stay here a minute," Ambition disappeared downstairs and appeared again a moment later holding a picture.  "This is yours.  We'll hang it in your bunk tomorrow."  He gave Tony the picture of him with his parents.  "Now go back to bed Kid."

            Tony looked around the dark room, calming his crying, but still scared.

            Ambition sighed, had he been this difficult for Maple, "You wanna stay wit' me tonight?"

            Tony nodded.

            "Ok, den lay down an' go ta sleep."  

            It was the next morning that Maple set down the rules that applied for every kid Tony's age that was left at the lodging house.  You had to sell in a less crowded part of town and keep an eye on him at all times.  Going anywhere near crowds, the docks, or the tracks was basically forbidden.  Teaching him to sell, however, was encouraged.  Ambition made up a headline and told Tony to yell it.  He put the little boy on his shoulders and sold papers to those who wanted to buy from the 'adorable little boy'.  ::if only they knew what he'd become later in life::  This was how the two of them spent there days for several months. 

In September Kloppman began teaching him to read and count.  Being very bright Tony picked everything up quickly.  Kloppman wasn't always impressed when the older boys added obscenities to Tony's ever-growing vocabulary.  Several letters from Tony's parents came to the lodging house.  He put the money into Tony's bank account and took out only what was needed for board.  He saved the letters in a box to give to Tony when he was older and able to understand.  It wasn't that he doubted the Higgins' love for their son.  It was just, many families never made enough to come back.

Two other boys arrived during the next few years, both of them older than Tony.  The group became friends and Tony contributed to one of their names.  His proper speech had deteriorated to the street slang the rest of the boys used.  In early 1890 Maple gave up his role as leader.  Ambition took over for him, while Maple still stayed at the lodging house Ambition was in control.

More boys around Tony's age poured into the lodging house.  Out of nothing but pure luck he remained the youngest.  Early on Spade had taught the young boy how to play Poker and Tony was extremely good at it.  Out of the new boys no one could beat him.  Maple had given Spade a long lecture on teaching kids to gamble, but he would have learned eventually.

When Tony was eight Digits asked him to sell with him one day.  He'd heard how Tony was a good selling partner and wanted to see if it could help him sell.  He brought the boy down to Sheepshead Races and Tony sold his papers within the first few hours. While he waited for Digits he bet on a few of the horses, usually winning (beginners luck).  He loved the track; it reminded him of his father and a good time he'd had once.

Ambition would disapprove of Tony being at the tracks.  So Tony didn't tell him.  The few others who knew where he sold every day knew better than to tell.  Sometimes Tony was lucky, and won all day, and others he lost every race he bet on.  He really didn't care all that much.  

One particularly good day he'd just won the fourth race in a row and had three whole dollars in his pocket, just from that race.  Seeing that he had another forty cents from selling he couldn't help yelling with happiness.  There's just one problem, yelling attracts people.  A hand on the collar of his shirt brought him back to reality.  Not allowing him to turn around that person was dragging him out of the racetrack.  He fought and yelled, trying to break the firm hold but was unsuccessful. They dragged him all the way back to the lodging house where he was thrown on his bunk.  He turned around and cursed, Ambition was standing in front of him.

"So that's where youse been sellin' all these months; the racetrack.  Ya know I was startin' to wonder where you was getting' all dat money."  He yelled.

Tony glared at him, "I'se can sell where eva I wants!"

"Tony," Ambition groaned, not knowing how to deal with the eight-year-old, "I know you like selling there but youse gonna lose all your money on a race one day.  I watched you today; ya bet on five races."

Tony was starting to see his point.  He remembered the man outside every day begging for coins because he'd lost so many races he was in debt.  "Alright Ambition, I won't go back there no more."

Ambition grinned suddenly, "That's not what I meant.  Go ahead and sell there, 'cause you sell really good there.  If youse gonna bet though, put money away for dinner and board first.  An' only three races a day, at most."

"But Am-"

"Not negotiable," his grinned widened, "Ya know it's about time I thought up a newsie name for you."

"You came up with a name for me?" Tony looked at him confused.

Ambition nodded, "Racetrack, Race for short."

The name definitely fit, and spread through the newsies like fire.  Any new newsies didn't know him as Tony or Kid, but as Race.  It was then that he became famous for playing Poker and other games that involved betting.  

By the age of ten Race was undefeated in the lodging house.  Even in a game against Brooklyn's leader, Rebel, and his best he won.  Rebel's apprentice of sorts, a well-known Brooklyn newsie named Spot, turned red with fury when he was beat.  The kid had a bit of a temper.  A feminine looking boy begged Rebel to let him play Race but Rebel threw him a look followed by, "Not tonight, Hotshot."

He also knew about his parents by then.  The letters had stopped by the time he turned eight and Kloppman had deemed him old enough to read them at age ten.  Reading the letters brought back memories about his parents.  He pushed these thoughts into a tiny space in the back of his brain reserved for a few emotional thoughts and ignored them.  He wasn't the youngest anymore either.  Crutchy was almost a month and a half younger than him and Swifty was almost a month younger than Crutchy.

More years passed and more newsies arrived, including one of Racetrack's cousins from Italy.  Thankfully, Race was still fluent in Italian as the boy would babble on in Italian whenever he got scared or nervous.  Race also brought his first newsie to the lodging house right before he turned fifteen.  On a particularly cold morning he'd found the young boy asleep on the statue of Horace Greeley in the square.  It was the first day Racetrack had taken off from selling in years, but he took the boy back to Kloppman and got him settled.  The little boy idolized Racetrack after that.  Unfortunately, he picked up the bad habits of having a smart mouth and stole Race's cigars occasionally.  Therefore the two of them argued constantly and the young boy became closer with Boots.  This kid was the last, as Race had been the first to be named by Ambition.  He was aptly named Snipeshooter for accidentally hitting Ambition in the head when he fired a marble form a slingshot.  Many later got on Ambitions case when Snipeshooter did a series of sneak attacks.

Race's birthday passed with a deck of cards from the boys and a box of Havana Cigars from Ambition.  It was without a word in early January that their leader left.  Some of his things were found on different bunks as gifts.  A note was on the desk announcing that the boys should choose their own leader.  While many were quick to nominate Race, the young Italian didn't accept the offer.  Instead he suggested Jack, who was equally popular.  In early spring new events were pulled into the still carefree Italian's life.  

*            *            *

Race was walking around the tracks after betting on his fifth race of the day.  Sure, if Ambition had still been leader he would've had it coming, but Jack was leader now.  Jack knew that Race was the smartest guy in the lodging house when it came to the tracks.  Race never, _well almost never, got himself in too deep.  He leaned down along the rail as the horses flew around the last turn._

"C'mon Fiahbird!" he yelled.  If he won he'd have two extra dollars to add to his savings.  Firebird, through some miracle sailed across the finish line a full length in front of the next horse.  Race turned on a dime and charged toward his bookie, "Where's me money Harris?"

Harris smiled; He'd been Race's bookie since the first day he'd come to the tracks.  Sure he'd fooled the ignorant little kid a few times back then but now Race was almost smarter than he was when it came to placing bets.  "Seventy-five cents." He handed the money over to Race with a grin, "Don't spend it all in one place."

"Nevah," out of habit Race quickly counted over the change and nodded, "I'll see you tomorrow Harris."

"Tomorrow Race," Harris tipped his hat as the newsie strolled off.

Race smiled to himself as he stuffed the money in his pocket.  He chanced a glance into the middle class section of the stands, a few rows up from where he was standing.  He saw a woman and a man pointing someone out to a guard.  He looked around and found no other conspicuous characters around.  It was about that time he noticed the woman was pointing directly at him.  Being one who noticed trouble so easily he started to run.  Before the guard could reach the walkway he was gone.  Race ran until he was a block from the racetrack.  What had he done this time?  He never touched that lady.  Had she thought he was too young to be betting or just asked to have him thrown out.  The middle class didn't have the power of the rich men who bet hundreds on a single race, but they could complain about people and have them thrown out.  The man and women had looked barely rich enough to be in that section. 

"How was your day at the track, Race?" Kid Blink asked as he entered the bunkroom.

Race shrugged, "Three outta five.  Some woman sent a guard afta me though so I didn't have time for a sixth."

"What'd ya do this time?" Mush asked.

"Nothin'!  I was nowhere near her she was jus' pointin' me out to the guard so I ran."

"Sure Race," Jack nodded, "Ya didn't do nothin'."

As everyone went back about their business Race dug the change out of his pocket.  Two whole dollars to add to his savings.  And he still had fifty cents for the morning and afternoon editions tomorrow.  He pulled out a small drawstring bag that hung under his bed and added the change to it.  The bag was getting heavy; he'd have to go to the bank this weekend and make a deposit.  He added the money and hung the bag back on the bent nail under his bed.

Pulling fifty cents out of his pocket he plopped himself down in an empty corner.  "Blackjack boys; who's in!?" he yelled.  Several other newsies crowded around pulling various coins and items out of their pockets.  Race smirked pulling a pack of cards out of his back pocket, yelling out the rules as if no one except him could remember them.

Several hours later Kloppman came upstairs ordering the boys to bed.  Racetrack grinned as he climbed into his bunk.  Sure he was twenty-five cents poorer than when he'd started playing but the rush of adrenaline was still pumping through his veins.  He mindlessly shuffled through his cards until Kid Blink almost kicked him in the face climbing into the top bunk.

"Watch it ya bum!" he yelled.

"Race, go ta sleep," a very grouchy Skittery complained.

Several other complaints ensured Race that he wouldn't win if he started an argument.  He reluctantly pulled off his vest, shirt and suspenders.  Snipeshooter grinned, laughing at him from the next bunk over.  Sure he'd sorta saved the kids life a few years ago; did the kid care. No.  Reluctantly he slid down under the thin sheet issued to each of them and drifted into sleep.

The next morning Race decided not to go to the racetrack just to be safe.  He stumbled through the washroom in a sleepy stupor trying to figure out another place to sell.  He was still half asleep and without a place to sell when he got outside.  A bit of coffee from the nuns woke him up but when he bought fifty papers at the distribution station he had no idea where to sell them.

"Hey bum," he said to no one in particular.

Bumlets, one of the boys who'd been at the lodging house the longest, turned to look at him, "What's up Race?"

"Ya know anyplace good ta sell?  I'se wanna avoid the tracks taday, jus' ta be safe."    

"Sure, I'se goin' ta Bottle Alley, wanna come?" He slung fifty papers over his shoulder and began to walk toward the gates.

Race shrugged, "Why not." 

Both of them looked over there papers for improvable headlines on the short hike.  They stopped at the entrance to Bottle Alley for a moment, taking it all in.  The place was a small street crowded with stands and carts.  People of many origins and speaking different languages walking all over the place.  It was where Bumlets had grown up, before becoming a newsie, but Race hadn't been there in years.

"Anything good?" Bumlets asked as they started in.

"Mayor invited governor's family to estate dinner," he grinned, "or as I like to call it Scandal involving Mayor and governor's wife."

"You can still translate that into Italian right?"

"Il Sindaco di coinvolgere di scandalo ed il governatore's la moglie!"  Race smirked as he walked down the road yelling the headline.

He'd sold his last paper to the owner of a cart in exchange for half a loaf of bread and was looking forward to meeting up with the guys at Tibby's three hours later.  He heard a familiar voice talking in Italian behind him.  He turned to find a woman and man talking to a cart owner.  The old man who owned the cart pointed to him and he noticed the couple was the same one from the tracks the previous day.  The man started toward him, "Il giovane uomo-[1]"

Race turned on his heel and began running toward the entrance with the man close behind him.  "See ya Bumlets!" he called as he passed his friend.  He looked behind him once he made it to the street to see the man was still behind him.

"Fermata![2]" the man yelled.

Race ignored the man's protests and kept funning.  He dodged through numerous alleys and  through crowds until he was sure the man was no longer following him.  He then slowed his pace and walked the rest of the way to Tibby's.  Jack was standing out front, red with anger.  "Where have you been.  We been waitin' for you for half an hour?"

"Huh?" Racetrack asked.

Jack threw up his hands in frustration, "I told you in the washroom this mornin'.  Spot's doin' that peace treaty b'tween all the boroughs.  The leada from each one has to bring three newsies wit' him an' we'se stayin' for a few days to be sure we get it figured out.  You, me, Kid Blink, an' Specs are goin'."

"I was asleep on me feet this mornin'.  Guess I didn't hear."

Jack sighed and ran back to the lodging house with Race.  Specs and Kid Blink were waiting on the front steps so Race quickly packed his stuff and joined them.  

"So Jack, I get why you brought me an' Kid, but why's Specs comin'."  Race didn't mean any offense but Specs wasn't as close to the taking over position for leader as most of the other boys.  Race also knew that the older boy wasn't particularly fond of Brooklyn.

"He's smart Race,' Jack said, "real smart.  We want someone smart to see tricks the otha guys might try ta pull."

The group of Manhattan newsies continued until they reached the Brooklyn lodging house.  They were the last to arrive but Racetrack still came into the room cheerfully.

"Heya boys.  Whadda ya hea, whadda ya say?" he said.

Race was known all over New York so every newsie in the room knew him.  Most of them only rolled their eyes and made obscene gestures at him.  Spot Conlon was the only to really greet him.

"Hey Race." Spot grinned, he made it his business to know every newsie in New York.  He went on to greet the other three and invited them to sit down.

There were roughly 35 newsies in the room, including the ones from Manhattan.  The Manhattan boys seated themselves on crates.  Race looked around, he knew all the leaders in the room and was probably one of the only newsies who could name all the leaders.  

There was Jack and Spot, but everyone knew them.  Mayhem Boyle was the leader of Harlem and lived up to his name.  Outrage Amadeo from the Bronx was named for having absolutely no temper, ever.  Race had lived in the same housing project, as the Queens leader, Night Matthews and the two were good friends.  Hawk Feldman of Midtown was commonly in Manhattan.  The leader of the Battery, Blue Warren was a jazz singer.  Life McGowan of East Side was a good friend of Jacks, and Pyro Foster was usually trying to set something on fire.

"Why'd you bring him?" one of the lower newsies from a different borough asked Jack.

Spot made the reply, "Racetrack Higgins has been a newsie longer than any other newsie in New York.  He knows more about these streets and bein' a newsie than anyone here."

Race raised an eyebrow; he'd been a newsie longer than any of the others?  He must've been the last to know it.  Race looked over Spot's chosen newsies.  Pickpocket Dolan and Hotshot Lynn were standing behind him as always.  They'd been his second in commands since before he was leader.  Race's eyes landed on the girl behind Spot.  Spot introduced her as Laze Lada.

The meetings lasted all afternoon with the newsies deciding that they needed to stop any territory wars, which had been very frequent over the past few years.  All afternoon they argued over boundaries and rules.  By the time they had dinner Race was in desperate need of some fun.  He almost cried in happiness when Laze started a game of poker.  The numerous games started but he was able to join the one with Laze, Spot, Night, Jack, and Outrage.

Spot lost the first game pitifully and swore, "Laze you cheat!"

A glare flashed in her eyes, "Spot you know for a fact that I do not cheat.  It ain't my fault you're always cranky 'cause you're too short to see over the table."

"Don't start wit' me Laze.  You'se shorter than I am."

"Stop while you're ahead Spot.  I might just hafta tell everyone how small…" she trailed off because all the boys were able to fill the rest in themselves.  One of Spot's seconds, Hotshot came over and clapped Laze on the back.  

"One more game wit' the other leaders and you're out Hotshot.  Same wit' you Laze." They both turned to him at the unfairness.  "I ain't changin' me mind.  I don' want all the boys hatin' you cause you beat 'em too many times."

Race looked over at them as the two walked off.  Everyone knew Spot's other second Pickpocket but they only occasionally heard of Hotshot.  He wondered why.  Too bad Laze seemed so close to Hotshot, Race liked her attitude and she was pretty.   He walked outside a few minutes later and found that the two had split up.  Hotshot was standing by himself at the end of the dock, twisting a slingshot around in his hands.  Race made his approach somewhat more cautious knowing that was a death threat around most Brooklyn newsies.  Hotshot heard his approach and looked up.

"Heya Race," the boy placed his slingshot in his pocket and moved over to let Race sit.  

Race sat down, "So why'd Spot kick you an' Laze outta the poker game?"

He smirked, "Well I'd beat everyone in there an' Laze has a tendency to be a bit overly sarcastic."

"I'd noticed," Race grinned too, "So how long the two a you been together?"

"What, me an' Laze together?" Hotshot laughed, "She ain't my goil."

 "Is she wit' Spot?" Race was hopeful now.

"Nope, far as I know she don't have a boyfriend, an' we'se pretty good friends."

"How old is she?"

"Turned fourteen last Novemba.  You like 'er Race?"

"I guess I do," He smiled.  She'd be the first girl he went out with if he could get up the guts to ask her.

"She's right over there, why don't you go ask her?"

"What!?  I can't ask her now!"  He turned to notice a strange gleam in Hotshot's eyes and an almost scary smirk.

"Hey Laze!" Hotshot called, "C'mere, Race wants ta ask you sumthin'."  With a smile he patted Race on the shoulder and walked off.

"Hey Race," Laze said somewhat shyly because the two of them were alone.

Race ran a hand through his hair.  How was Mush able to ask girls out so easily?  "I was wonderin' if you maybe wanted to get a bite to eat some night afta all this was ova?"

She smiled, "I'd love to."

"Alright, maybe afta that youse could help me kill that friend a yours over there."  He nodded in Hotshot's direction.

She smirked, "With pleasure."  Race had found that any Brooklyn newsie's smirk usually meant trouble.  Maybe he should move to Brooklyn?

The next morning the leaders were all up early arguing away on random rules.  They were arguing over which borough would be the place where they would meet when needed.  Though Manhattan and another borough supported the Brooklyn decision, two other wanted Harlem.  Race was falling asleep when he was dragged into it.  His face was in his hand when it slipped and he pitched forward hitting his forehead on the table, "Arginato [3]!" he yelled sitting up completely awake.

"Well Race," one of Blue's cronies said, "Since youse finally decided to join the land of the living why don't you share you're opinion wit' us."  Meanwhile Laze was laughing into her hand.

"Fine," Race said.  "No matter what any a youse bums think we'se gonna end up holdin' meetings in Brooklyn.  Now think about it this way, if any borough, no two, make it any two boroughs went up against Spot and the Brooklyn newsies they'd lose.  Here we'se got the most protected place for meetings and everyone can get here 'cause it's the most central borough in the whole goddamn city!"  He looked around the now silent room.

"Any objections to Brooklyn?"  Script, a Queens newsie asked.  No one said a word.  "Brooklyn it is then." He scribbled furiously on the piece of paper.  More laws and agreeances were written that day and the next before the newsies returned to their boroughs.  Racetrack left promising to come find Laze the next night.

She met him at the bridge and they walked to Tibby's.  Instead of following Mush's advice the two of them just talked the entire night, enjoying each other's company.  Okay, so it wasn't exactly normal conversation.  Sarcastic remarks about everyone usually weren't, but they had a good time.  

Laze began to spend more time in Manhattan after that.  Though she was still a Brooklyn newsie and refused to move from her home she was seen in by the Manhattan newsies almost daily.  She'd meet up with Race at the tracks or wait for him to show up at Tibby's.  Occasionally she'd sell with him, but tried not to make it a habit.  Their dates usually consisted of poker games, trips to the tracks, or talking at Tibby's or the bridge.  When at the lodging house the two knew how to push everyone's buttons, which was always a good thing, unless Spot was there.  Being with Laze made Race forget about the couple that seemed to be following him.  He didn't see them through the spring and as summer started he figured they'd given up looking for him.

It was late July, and a fifteen-year-old Racetrack was walking back from the tracks to meet up with Laze, and probably some f the guys at Tibby's.  He'd been seeing Laze for a little more than four months now and had finally gotten up his courage to ask her to be his girl.  He'd begged and pleaded until Kloppman allowed him to take a little money out of the savings his parents had left for him.  Lying in his pocket now was a small ring.  Nothing fancy, but Laze would like it, he hoped.

"Heya Race," Itey called as he entered the restaurant, "How was your day at the tracks?"

Race shrugged, "What can I say, Fiahboid ain't runnin' as good as he used to."

He went over to a table where Jack, Skittery, Kid Blink, Mush, and  Crutchy were seated.  He slid into a seat, grinning.  Jack looked over at him after a few moments and noticed the smirk the younger Italian was wearing.  Realization dawned on Jack, "You got her the ring?"

Race nodded, "Finally, I hope she likes it."

"Race, she already said she'd be youse goil, ya didn't hafta get her nuthin'." Mush said.

"Well I wanted ta.  Mush youse got a new goil every few weeks, but I plan on Laze bein' me goil for a while.  I love her."

Mush chose to ignore the insult to his dating methods, knowing he'd never win in an argument against Race.  "If this ring is so wonderful why don' you let us see it?"

Race grinned, he'd been telling everyone about the ring for.  Glancing around to make sure she wasn't there yet he pulled it out of his back pocket and placed it on the table.  It wasn't much, a silver band with an interesting design carved into it.  He picked it up after Mush nodded and put it back in his pocket.  

Not a minute too soon either.  As he settled into his chair and ordered a drink the door clanged open and the familiar voice drifted through the air.

"I ain't seen a bugger bunch a lazy bums since last time I was here.  Do any a youse eva work?"

"We missed you too Laze." Specs commented, not even turning to look at her.  Then he picked up where he had left off talking to Dutchy.  Specs was Laze's best friend, unless you counted Race.

Race stood up and wrapped an arm around her waist, and kissed her quickly.  Several of the Manhattan girls commented and the boys made catcalls.  Race pulled away with a grin on his face and yelled over his shoulder, "Alright already, enough comments from the Peanut Gallery."  He walked with Laze over to an empty booth and sat down.  "So how was sellin' in Brooklyn today?"

She rolled her eyes, "Awful, The World needs a new headline writer."

"I told ya you should have come to the tracks wit' me today," he grinned his favorite I-told-you-so grin.

She swatted at him with her gray newsie cap and complained, "Why are you so arrogant?  Youse almost as bad as Spot."

"Yeah, but that's why you love me."

She shook her head, muttering sarcastically, "Unfortunately."

"So you wanna sell wit' me tomorrow?"

"You comin' to the big poker game in Brooklyn this weekend?"

"Don't answer a question with a question."

"Answer the question."

"It's only Monday, Laze, the game ain't till Saturday," Race sighed, "but yes."

"Then yes."

He sighed and stared at her for a moment before reaching into his back pocket, "I got sumthin' for ya."

Laze raised an eyebrow.  Race lost a majority of his money betting and when he didn't barely had any left over to begin with.  How on earth was he able to afford something for her.

"Race, you don't need to get anything for me." She argued.

"I wanted to," he said back, "All the other guys who got girlfriends give 'em sumthin' a theirs to show they'se together but I don't got nuthin' like that ta give you so I got you sumthin'."  He placed the ring on the table between them.

Laze picked it up and examined the design.  As much as she hated to admit it she loved the ring.  She didn't want Race spending his hard earned money on her but wanted to keep it.  He was giving her something to show he loved her.  Unlike other guys she'd met Race was often nervous about their relationship and wanted to do everything right.  She was also sure he was keeping something from her.  She'd dig it out of him eventually.  "Race, I love it." She spoke without thinking.  Several 'awws' came from the next booth over.

Race muttered something about 'the damn peanut gallery' under his breath but smiled as she slipped the ring onto her finger.

"How the hell did you afford this?" she asked.

"That's for me to know, and you…well…not to." He supplied unable to think of a proper ending.

She laughed, "You muttonhead."  She stood up to rejoin their friends and reached down to mess up his hair, "I love you."

He sat there grinning as she walked over away and relaxed, waiting for her to get off his lazy rear and move.

"Racetrack!" It was Jack's voice, not hers that called to him.

"Race!" There was Laze's voice but it sounded confused.  

Race slid out of the seat and found himself looking at the couple from the tracks from earlier that month.  By the time he recognized them he was standing in the center of the small diner and froze on the spot.  If the bulls carried him away for doing something he was still young enough to be sent to an orphanage, or worse, the refuge.  He took a second to control his rapid breathing before asking calmly, "What's up Jack?"

"These fine people here were askin' for you."

"What'd they ask for, the short Italian kid.  Must be lookin' for Itey."  He kept talking as if they weren't there in hopes that they'd take the hint and go away.

"Nah, they didn't ask for the Italian kid, or the newsie from the tracks neither.  They asked for Anthony Higgins."

As his name spilled from Jacks mouth Race's blood ran cold; he hadn't even been called Tony in years, let alone heard his last name.

"Who?" Snipeshooter asked.

"Dats me Snipes," Race said, "Go sit down."

It had been a long time since Snipeshooter had actually done what Race said but that day he followed orders.

"So," Race took a few steps so he was standing directly in front of the couple, "Who are you?"  He met the man's eyes and was almost suddenly thrown into a series of tiny flashbacks, not a whole scene together but a series of flashes from his childhood.  He saw a little boy, the racetrack, Tibby's years ago, a woman pregnant with a child, then crying, and a night laying in Ambition's bunk crying.

"You don't recognize us?" the woman's voice was strangely comforting.

"We're your parents," the man supplied.

For a moment Race's face softened, but then a frown creased his features.  "Whatta you want?"

"Anthony," his mother said quietly, "I'm sorry it took so long for us to get back here but it was impossible to keep enough money for the trip until last year.  Your father is the head of a famous newspaper up in Boston."

"We want to get you out of this awful place and bring you up to Boston with us." His father said, "We almost gave up searching for you after we saw you in Bottle Alley but some nice newsie told us he knew a newsie like you when we described you-"

"Which one?" Race broke in.

"I didn't catch a name.  He's about your height with curly dark hair, some blue checkered shirt-"

Race cut him off again, "That would be Itey or you'd probably call him Jeffery, your nephew."

"The point of the matter is we want you to come live with us in Boston, your cousin as well.  Since it took you so long to find you our train leaves tomorrow afternoon.  Be at the hotel on main street by five tonight."

"What!?" Race asked.

"You heard me young man.  You and your Jeffery are coming to Boston with us tomorrow.  It took me and your mother twelve years to get enough money to come and find you.  Now that we've found you we aren't going to let you stay in this infested rat hole of a city and that filthy lodging house.

"What the hell is the matter with you!?" Racetrack shouted.  His mother audibly gasped as he cursed.  Most Manhattan newsies didn't swear often and Race almost never.  He dropped unknowingly into the language that he had used so frequently in his childhood and when he wanted to talk to Laze privately.  "Lei pensa che lei possa appena è ritornato qui dopo che il me di lasciare solo per dodici anni e lo decide vuole essere i miei genitori ancora. Lei me lasciato in un che l'alloggiando casa quando avevo tre anni e lei me aspetta a giusto ha incontrato il suo simile a braccia un piccolo bambino. Ho pianto nelle braccia dell'Ambizione la notte che lei lasciata. Me ha detto il pieno di notizie andavano aumentarme, e lei sa ciò che, hanno fatto! Dove l'erano quando ero malato da giocare nella neve troppo lungo. Dove l'erano quando alcuno vagabondo sulle strade ha ucciso uno dei miei amici. Dove l'erano quando sono stato battuto la metà alla morte sulle strade per un dollaro schifoso. Dove l'inferno lo erano quando ho avuto bisogno dei miei genitori. Lei non erano mai lí quando ho avuto bisogno di lei, quando avrei potuto usare il suo consiglio. Lei non erano lí, ma i miei amici erano. Lei ha assolutamente nessuna destra per voi chiamarstessi i miei genitori, ed anche meno di una destra di dire me ciò che fare. Il cosa di qualunque la ragione lei pensa che lei può ritornare qui e tenta di trascinarme fuori della sola vita che mai ho saputo ha torto. Dunque esce da appena la mia città e ritorna a Boston, o dovunque lei è venuto da e lascia il me l'inferno solo.[4] (I know it's a lot and it's confusing, but the translation is at the bottom.)"  With that he shoved his way past them and hurried out the door, leaving Bumlets translating what he'd said to the guys while his parents, Itey, Jack, and Laze stood there shocked.

Race hurried back to the lodging house and passed Kloppman.  ignoring the old mans questions of why he was back early he hurried up to the bunkroom.  He pulled the picture of his family out of the place it hung in his bunk and prepared to rip it to shreds.  He caught sight of the picture and couldn't bring himself to do it.  He held the picture in front of himself and looked at the little boy and the proud parents in the picture.  With a sigh he placed the picture back where he kept it.  Several minutes later he jumped as a hand rested on his shoulder.

"You told me your parents were dead." Laze said.

"Well to me they were," he sighed turning to face her, "I mean c'mon Laze.  They left me at the lodging house twelve years ago and promised in every letter they sent that they'd have the money to come get me soon.  Even then they stopped sending letters a few years ago.  Seriously Laze, what would you think?" He turned to her with wide, deep brown eyes.  If he were any of the other newsies Laze knew he would probably be crying, but Race never let himself cry.

"I'd think they weren't comin' back," she admitted.  She stepped up to the edge of the bunk and Race wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her onto the bunk.  He wrapped her in his arms and sighed.  Laze continued, "But they did, Race, they came back."  She pulled away and turned to face him.

"They're not my parents anymore," Race said, "Ambition was the closest thing I ever had to a parent."  

"I understood everything you told them Race," she said, "I don't care what you say, they are your parents and they want you."

He looked up to meet her gaze, "Are you saying that I should go back to Boston with them?"

She stood up as though she couldn't stand to be so close to him anymore.  "I see you look at that picture whenever we're here Race.  When I thought they were dead I thought you just missed them, like I do my dad, but they'se alive.  You still want to be part of that family Race, deny it all you want but you do.  If you went with them you'd have a future, you know most of us newsies are gonna end up as nuthin'.  I'm not saying that you should go with them or that you should stay here.  I'm saying you should do what makes you happy."

Race sighed, he wasn't sure what he wanted to do.  As though suddenly overcome by a headache he put a hand over his face, "Will ya help me find Itey?"

"Yes," her voice was quiet but determined, "Let's go."

He took her hand in his as they left the building, feeling the cool ring of the ring he'd given her.  They walked to Snitch and Itey's usual selling spot.  Laze took Itey's papers and he and Race went for a walk.  After a few moments of silence Race finally spoke.

"Do you wanna go to Boston Itey?"

Itey looked at his cousin, "Nah, I'se got a better life here than I did in Italy an' for me this is as good as it gets.  Don't let me hold you back though Race.  Go if you wanna go."

"If I do will you keep an eye on Snipe for me?"

"Sure," Itey smiled.

The two talked more and when they returned to the selling spot found Snitch and Laze gone.  They made their way back to the lodging house and found all of the newsies, even Spot there.

"Would you hate me if I went with them?" he asked, "If I came back after would you even look at me?"  His question was directed to three people in the room though he asked everyone.

"We wouldn't hate you, Race." Spot said.

"Get out of here, Race," Jack prompted, "Any newsie here would kill to be in your shoes."

Race turned, "Laze?"

She hugged him, "I could never hate you.  I just want you to be happy."

The next morning Race was at his parents' hotel room early.  His father opened the door with a surprised look on his face.  After being invited in Race apologized, "I'se sorry about my behavior yesterday.  I guess I was just a little surprised.  If the offer still stands I'd like to go to Boston wit' you."

His mother hugged him and he hugged her back, though somewhat awkwardly. "Of course you can still come."

*            *            *

That afternoon all the newsies were at the train station to see Race off.  "You sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked Laze.

"I want you to be happy," she said, "I love you, Race."  She twisted the ring around on her finger as she spoke.

He kissed her forehead and she pulled away retreating into the crowd.  Race kew if he went after her he'd lose his nerve so he turned to Itey.

"You sure you wanna stay here?"

His cousin nodded, "New York is my home.  We might be considered the scum of the streets but we have family here, the newsies, and it's my home."

He hugged his cousin and bid everyone farewell one last time before boarding the train with his parents.  He looked out the window as the train pulled away and could see Laze standing at the end of the platform waving.  He waved back.

"Who was that?" Olivia asked, "One of your friends?"

"Yeah," Race replied, "My goilfriend." A silence filled the car for several minutes before another conversation was started.  Race's parents went on and on about life in Boston.  Race, despite his love of New York, found himself almost excited about this new place.

Race's parents didn't mind his heavy New York accent and accepted the fact that he still wanted to be a newsie.  He spent he first week with them, wandering the streets, learning them for him, and at his father's office.  He quickly learned how the presses worked and proved to his parents that he was educated.  The Higgins' home was a small but spacious house that reminded him of when he was younger.

Almost a week and a half after he'd arrived in Boston Race left the house early and walked to the distribution center.  He was waiting by the gates when a group of newsies came up.  

A tall, muscular one with messy blonde hair and bright blue eyes seemed to be their leader.  He wasn't half the size of the bigger Brooklyn guys, and wasn't as intimidating as Spot, or even Jack.  "Who ah you?" he asked.

Race decided to mouth off and see what kind of guy this was, "Depends on who wants ta know?"

"Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

"Well, as I see it I'se talkin' to a poor Boston newsie wit' a big mouth and an attitude nowhere near the size a Spot Conlon's tryin' ta intimidate me." Race smirked.

"Print McLean, leader of the newsies in this section of Boston." He held out his hand.

Race spit in his hand and shook with the other boy.

"You're a newsie?"

"Racetrack Higgins.  Call me Race.  Second in command in Manhattan."

"New York?" another boy asked.

"Yeah, 'til I left I was the newsie who'd been there the longest."

The gates opened and Race was the first one to buy papers.  Print caught up with him as he was leaving, "So who's this Spot Conlon."  

Race stopped dead in his tracks.  "I'se got a lot of explaining to do."

Over the next month and a half Race's life in Boston grew steadily better.  He grew very close with his parents and became friends with a number of Boston newsies.  He, however, still sold alone and was considered a loner as he had been in Manhattan.  He told all the boys stories of Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly, and numerous other newsies.  Many of the girls in Boston loved his accent and practically hung all over him.  Several boys even urged him to take a few of them out.  Race declined without giving a reason and changed the subject.

One of Race's few chores was to get the mail on his way home every night.  Print and him had become close and the Boston leader often accompanied him.  He'd been there for two and a half months on the day he got a very important message.  As the walked out of the post office Print talked about his latest girl while Race sorted through the mail.  He came to a letter addressed to him in a slightly familiar handwriting.  He ripped it open and scanned it, catching sight of the signature he stopped and read the whole thing.  Laze missed him terribly and had finally sat down and written him a letter.  It told him that her friends had saved their money and offered to but her a train ticket to be with him in Boston but she couldn't leave because New York was her home. Much of the letter was smudged from her crying.  She went on to say that she hoped to get a letter back from him, and she couldn't write him anymore because it was too painful.

"Who's it from?" Print asked.

"Laze." Race said.

"Who's he?"

"She's my goil."

"You have a girl back in New York?"

"New York is my home." He read to himself under his breath before running off, "I'll see you Monday Print."

He couldn't get up the courage to ask his parents that night and the next morning the three of them went out early.  They both refused to tell him where they were going and Race almost fell over when they approached a racetrack.  He was instantly at the fence watching the races once they got inside.  

"Do you wanna make a bet?" his father asked.

Race turned to his father with a smile on his face, "Can we?"  

Joseph handed his son the money and Race ran toward the nearest bookie to place the bet.

"Who'd you bet on?" his mother asked when he came and sat with them.

"Cherokee," he said grinning, "Five ta one."

True to his good luck streak when his parents were around Cherokee won.  His father collected the money and they sat down again, Race accepting the fact that he couldn't bet anymore that day.  As he reached his hands into his pockets he found a piece of folded paper, Laze's letter.  He kept up his happy façade for his parents but some of his enthusiasm was forgotten.

He approached his parents later that night, "I need to talk to you."

"Sit down then," his father indicated the empty chair at the table.

"Now that I'se gotten to know you I care about both of you very much, but I need to know, will you support my decision no matter what I decide to do?"

"Of course Tony.  We only want you to be happy." His mother's words echoed in his ears.  Laze had said the very same thing to him before he left New York.

"Before we came here my very smart cousin told me 'New York is my home.  We might be considered the scum of the streets but we have family here, the newsies, and it's my home.'  The newsies in New York are my home.  I love you both but I gotta go back there."

"That girl?" his father asked.

Race nodded.

"We'll get you tickets I the morning."  His mother smiled as she said it.

Race spent the next week tying up loose ends in Boston, and packing.  He'd gotten some nicer, plaid vests and a jacket in Boston to replace the ripped stuff from New York.  His parents were the only ones to see him off at the station, which made him realize that his real friends were in New York.  He hugged both his parents, promising to write and boarded the train.

The ride back to New York seemed agonizingly slow and he arrived early the next afternoon.  He all but ran to the lodging house and was almost amazed to see it was still standing.  Kloppman looked up at him as he came in the door.  "Well it's about time you got back here.  I think Itey won the bet for how long you'd stay away."  

"They was bettin' on how long I'd be gone for?" Race asked.

"Of course," the old man smiled, pushing a worn log book across the counter, "Sign in, your first night's free."

Race signed his name and threw his stuff into his old, and still empty bunk upstairs.  He ran back down through the lobby, yelling goodbye to Kloppman and headed to Tibby's.  As he looked through the window.  Everyone was there, minus those from Brooklyn.  He walked in with a wide grin on his face.  "I swear, Laze is right, do you bums ever work."

The diner became deathly silent and then exploded with noise and a surge of people came toward Race.  He said hello to almost everyone else before he found Itey and Jack.  

"Thanks for the advice," he told his cousin, "You were right New York is my home."  He hugged Itey and tuned to spit-shake with Jack. "So how's the headline?"

"How's this?" he asked, "New York's most famed celebrity back after break."

"Perfect, I tell ya man newsies in Boston don't got nuthin' on us."

"What'd you expect?"

"Is Laze around?"

"Go check Brooklyn.  My guess is Spot'll wanna se you too."  

By the time Jack finished his sentence Race was out the door.  He made it to Brooklyn in a time that could rival some of Swifty's.  The pier was crowded with boys swimming in the late summer sun.

"Spot," he yelled approaching the leader.

Spot turned around and a wide grin broke across his face.  "It's about time you got your lazy self back here."

The two spit shook and Spot asked, "So how was Boston."

"Ok, New York's better though.  Up there they ain't never heard of Spot Conlon."

Spot almost looked amazed.  

After the two briefly caught up with each other Race asked, "Where's Laze?"

Spot looked at his pocket watch, "She'll be at the bridge in five minutes.  Usually meets Hotshot up there to talk, but don't worry they ain't darting and I'll tell him to stay here today."  He gave Race a push, but Race didn't need anymore of as comment.  He ran to the Brooklyn Bridge as fast as his legs would carry him and slowed only when Laze cam into view.  He slowed  to a stop behind her.

She was silent for a few moments, "I can't believe he hasn't written back yet Hotshot.  I thought he loved me."  She played with the ring Race had given her, which was still on her finger.  "I miss him so much.  Could Boston really be that much better than here?"

"There's no way it's better than here because I have you here," Race said slipping his arms around her waist and I do love you."

She turned in his embrace and gasped, "Race." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, "What are you doing here?"

"Itey gave me some advice before I left.  He made me realize that New York was my home and it took me a while to understand that I cared about so many more people here than I do there, especially you."

"You're back for good."

"For good, I promise." He smirked, "You wanna go walk over to the lodging house.

"Sure." She smirked back, "I haven't made fun of Manhattan in awhile.  I love you Race."

"I love you too."

Race grew closer to the Manhattan guys and Laze.  He practically lived at the tracks and basically didn't change that much from his old self, but he loved New York now more than before and was determined to stay there.  It was several months later and he was sixteen.  He woke up to Kloppman's yelling.  He sat up with a smile on his face knowing that he had a date with Laze at the tracks and then noticed that Snipeshooter had stolen one of his Havana cigars.

"Dat's my cigar…" he sang……

You know the rest…  

[1] Young man-

[2] Stop!

[3] Damn!

[4] You think you can just come back here after leaving me alone for twelve years and decide you want to be my parents again.  You left me in a lodging house when I was three years old and you expect me to just run into your arms like a little kid.  I cried into Ambition's arms the night you left.  He told me the newsies were going to raise me, and you know what, they did!  Where were you when I was sick from playing in the snow too long.  Where were you when some bum on the streets killed one of my friends.  Where were you when I was beaten half to death on the streets for a lousy dollar.  Where the hell were you when I needed my parents.  You were never there when I needed you, when I could have used your advice.  You weren't there, but my friends were.  You have absolutely no right to call yourselves my parents, and even less of a right to tell me what to do.  Whatever the reason you think you can come back here and try to drag me out of the only life I have ever known is wrong.  So just get out of my city and go back to Boston, or wherever you came from and leave me the hell alone.

A/N:  I hope you all like this and I apologize for it taking so long to type.  Make your guess for the next character.  I have to go to bed 'cause I'm getting screamed at but I'll leave a longer note in the next chapter.  Promise.

~Hotshot~~~


	3. Dennis 'Rebel' Bennett and Gariel 'Spot'...

My Way Home

Chapter 2

By Hotshot

Dennis 'Rebel' Bennett

And

Gabriel 'Spot' Conlon

            It all happened because of Rebel; without him there would have been no Brooklyn and the newsies may not have won the strike.  But he was born and they did.  There were problems along the way but everyone had problems.  These two knew how to face them. 

            Lawrence Conlon was a young man, barely finished with his first year at the university when he met Audrey Bennett.  She was in a class slightly lower than his but still a radiant beauty.  The two spent all their time together possible.  Lawrence treated her like any gentleman of high class should, all the while never letting her close.  His family was not the nicest of people and the business he was involved in barely allowed him to see her.

            She knew this.  He never told her but being a woman she could always tell something was wrong and tried not to push him.  The few times she had he had hit her.  She came back only because in those days it was seen as meaning the woman had done something wrong.  She had already convinced herself that she was in love with him.

            It was when they two of them went out that caused a problem.  Audrey had a passion for dancing so he'd often bring her to a bar where she could dance.  Sometimes the two of them would dance all night, and others they'd mix dancing with numerous drinks from the bar.  It was one of the nights where they drank that problems started.  Lawrence barely remembered leaving the pub but woke up next to Aubrey the next morning.  Carefully, trying not to wake her he got out of bed, dressed, and left.  She watched him form the bed, barely conscious.

            The relationship went downhill.  Neither of them remembered that night much, but other things just started to happen.  They would fight more often, or he would be called away for work too much. 

            Audrey was five months pregnant when she found out.  Her family sent her away for several months, not telling Lawrence anything other than she was visiting relatives.  This left him free to see several other women.  Almost a month after she came back he finally decided to drop by and visit.  He entered the house to find her holding a child in her arms.  With a quick look at the baby there was no denying who the parents were.  The little boy had Audrey's face, but his eyes were identical to Lawrence's, a peculiar shade of green.  Because of the scandal the child would cause the two were soon engaged.  Neither really wanted it but it was the only way.  

            Lawrence hated the idea of being married.  So early in his life he was tied to one woman.  Audrey knew her life already.  She would eventually be tied to one man.  Though she had not expected it to be Lawrence she accepted the fact quickly and grew to love him again.  The first several weeks after their marriage were wonderful for both of them and Lawrence nearly forgot what she had taken from him.  Audrey's parents had taken the baby for a weekend, which they spent much of in the bedroom.

            The little boy's name was Dennis.  Legally his last name was Bennett, but he would be sent to the school with the last name Conlon so people would not know the reason the two were married.  Life was good for about three years for the child.  In that time Lawrence acted like a father.  Though he was often at work he would try to be home early and treated Audrey like a queen and Dennis like the most precious gift on earth.

It was a few weeks after Dennis had turned three that Lawrence came home from work one night.  Something had not gone right at the 'office' that day.  They lived in a large mansion but he was in complete hatred of the other people occupying it at this time.  He wanted the freedom he'd had before.  It didn't help that he was drunk as well.

"You, it's all your fault," he cried out stumbling into the kitchen.  He continued a slur of words and insults that made his wife look up from the pots she was cleaning.  

"Lawrence, not in front of your son," she motioned towards Dennis who was sitting in a corner of the room.  As her husband came up behind her she smelled the beer on his breath.  The smell sent shivers through her spine.  Over the past few years she'd learned he was a hit man, and for some reason that they were married didn't assure her that her wouldn't hurt her.  It was also unknown that him hitting her was a common occurrence.  He pulled her around by the shoulders and hit her soundly across the face.  She cried out slightly backing into the counter.  He hit her again.

"Don't hit my mommy!" with all the voice and strength a three-year-old could muster Dennis attacked his father's legs with his fists.

With one swift kick of his leg Lawrence Conlon sent the small child sailing across the room.    He turned back to his wife to continue his beating of her.  The small child only sat in the corner watching what was soon to become his life.

The beatings became more frequent.  Usually it was when he was drunk, but over the next two years he came home drunk less and less, but they were still beaten.  Dennis learned how to fight from several poorer boys who lived near their house and tried to fight back.  Lawrence was just too big and strong for the young boy.  Though he hated them now it wasn't the reason they were beaten.  Lawrence Conlon wanted his freedom back.  He loved his work and had picked up violent tendencies from it.  Being married the only women that would even look at him were whores.  For that he hated his life.  The only way he knew of to control his family was by beating them.

Audrey became pregnant again when Dennis was five.  Her first son was already unbreakable since he was used to the beatings and spent all day with the boys on the streets.  He also had a smart mouth, which got him in more trouble.  Audrey usually spent her days praying that Dennis would calm down and that her child would be a boy.  Lawrence had threatened to kill the child if it was a girl.  He wanted a 'legitimate heir'.

The couple's second son was born in late January, and named Gabriel or Gabe for short.  The boy was exactly the opposite of his older brothers.  He had Lawrence's face and Audrey's shocking blue eyes.

For several months after the baby was born things went back to normal.  When Lawrence went back to beating them he avoided Gabriel.  The little boy escaped any punishment until he was two-years-old.

Even though they had a large house Dennis and Gabriel shared a room.  One night Gabriel started crying form his bed.  No one knew why, he'd probably just had a bad dream.  Rebel was a heavy sleeper and slept through it.  Lawrence pulled himself out of bed and walked down the hall.  Audrey could immediately sense his mood and ran after him.  The old man pulled the boy out of his bed screaming for him to shut up.  Dennis was awake immediately at his fathers voice in the room.  Lawrence hit the child several times before leaving him on the floor, dragging his wife along with him.

Dennis had merely sat there watching his brother being beaten.  He'd never tried to get close to his little brother.  It had been every man for himself, but now their father had hit him and they had a way to connect.  Gabe was sitting very still on the floor, looking afraid to start crying again.

"You ok?" Dennis asked.

"Daddy hit me," Gabe whispered, his voice shaking.

Dennis pulled his little brother into his lap and rocked him back to sleep.  They had a bond now.  Dennis was soon teaching his little brother how to protect himself.  Gabe also picked some of his brother's language, for which neither of his parents was too pleased with.

A few months after Gabe had first been beaten a doctor came to visit the boys' mother.  Dennis prayed she wasn't pregnant again.  He didn't think he could manage protecting two siblings.  Being beaten had forced him to grow up very quickly and he acted like men years older than him did.

The doctor brought him and Gabe into the room when he came back the next day.  Their mother was sitting weakly on the bed but managed a smile for them.  Gabe bounced up onto the bed and Dennis managed a grim smile.

"Your mother has told me about being beaten," the doctor said, directing his speech at Dennis, "Unfortunately there is nothing I can do about that as it is a family problem.  It seems that over the past few days your father has caused internal bleeding in your mother's body.  Since there is no way to reverse the damage I am afraid she will not live more than another week."

Dennis turned to look at his mother who nodded grimly.

"I highly doubt that your father will take the time to care for her so I need you to help her.  Dennis, I want you to make sure she gets plenty of rest…"  The doctor went on to list foods that she could eat and how to make her comfortable.  "And if you find her and she's gone I want you to come to my office immediately, I don't care what time it is."   The doctor got up to leave and the two boys sat with their mother until she fell asleep.  Dennis broke the news to his father who ignored it.

"That isn't possible, get out of my way."

For the next several days Dennis was either watching his mother or younger brother.  He avoided his father as much as possible.  One afternoon he walked into her room to find a man in a suit sitting by her bed with a sheet of paper in his hand.  "Who's he?"

"Dennis this is my lawyer, Mr. Lynn," she said, "Christian this is my son."

Dennis shook the man's hand and helped Gabe climb onto their mother's bed.  "Why's he here."

"I'm making out my will.  Dennis you're going to need to sign it."

"Why me?"  He was confused as to why he should sign a formal document like that.

"I want you to be your brother's guardian.  I don't want Gabe or you in this house any longer than you need to be.  My will shows that that was what I wanted.  I want you to get yourself and your brother out of this house the day you turn eighteen.  After that you need to take care of him until he turns eighteen.  Do you understand?"

After Dennis nodded vigorously Mr. Lynn went on to explain the process of the will.  The nine-year-old signed his signature right below his mother's and left the room so she and Mr. Lynn could speak privately.  After Mr. Lynn was gone he went back in.

"What if he keeps beating us?"

"If he does that get yourself and your brother out of here.  I don't care what you do, just keep him safe and don't ever come back here.  I love both of you very much."  She wrapped both of them in her arms and they cried.  The next morning Dennis entered the room with his mother's breakfast.  She was paler than usual and not awake yet.  He put the tray on a table and went over to her, pulling his hand back immediately when he felt how cold her skin was.  He walked out of the room and locked the door so Gabe wouldn't go into the room.  Then he went to fetch the doctor.

The funeral was small.  The boys and their father, the rest of their mother's family, Mr. Lynn's family and the doctor were the only people there.  Gabe stood holding his brother's hand and bawling.  Dennis stood beside his father still as stone, and not letting a tear fall down his face.  He'd sworn to himself that he would never cry again. 

It became a full time job to take care of his brother that winter.  Their father was barely ever home, and when he was he was drunk.  Dennis got beaten several times a week and suffered silently happy only with the fact that his brother was left alone.  Weeks after Gabe had turned four Dennis was upstairs when his father got home.  He nearly jumped two feet in the air when he heard a cry.  In seconds he was down the stairs and found his father beating on his little brother in the living room.  The glare in his father's eyes showed the man was only angry, not drunk, and taking his anger out on the first person he saw.  He picked up a fire poker and swung.  It came in contact with the back of the older man's skull, knocking him out cold.

Dennis grabbed his younger brother and pulled the boy upstairs.  In a swift motion he slammed the door shut.

"You ok?"

"Why'd Dad hit me?" Gabe snapped, "I didn't do anything to him."

"I dunno," Dennis lied, "But Mom told me that if he ever hit you again she wanted us to get outta here.  Now go get the box under Mom's bed and yell if you see the old man wake up."

"Where are we gonna go?"

"Somewhere safe, now move!"  Dennis motioned with his head and watched his brother take off down the hall.  In the next few minutes he grabbed several sets of worn down clothes out of the closet.  Most were packed in a small bag but he left two out.  "Change!" he ordered, shoving a set at his brother in exchange for the box.  He packed a few things in the rapidly filling bag and dragged his brother downstairs.  In a last second impulse he pulled his fathers cane off the floor.  It was black with a gold tip that would be heavy and make a good weapon.  He closed the door quietly behind them.

The brothers ran for miles before slowing their pace and by that time they were in Brooklyn.  There was snow falling and it was getting dark.  Knowing they wouldn't be able to find a room anywhere Dennis hurried his brother into a deserted doorway to spend the night.  Gabe started to cry again, he was cold, and hungry, and wanted to go inside.  Dennis shook his brother's shoulders.

"Listen to me Gabe," he said, "I'se sorry but we ain't got a home no more.  We'se gonna live on the streets 'til I get enough to find us better.  I dunno I'll become a newsie or sumthin'.  But Gabe, you can't cry.  You'se gotta be brave and help me.  I can't take care a both of us on a newsies salary.  You live on the streets an' if they see you cry they'll break ya."

Something about the way the words were said made them sink into the little boys mind.  He quieted and stopped crying, and soon was asleep in his brother's arms.  Dennis knew he'd have to keep watch or they'd be killed.  It was so cold he thought they might freeze to death as well.  He watched a candle burning in a nearby window, and yawned, he was so tired.  Soon he'd drifted off.  He never saw the three older boys who found them, or felt himself being separated from his brother, and carried off.

He woke up warm and dry the next morning lying on a thin mattress.  At first he was comfortable and felt at home, until he remembered the past nights events.  He shot out of bed, hitting his head on the bunk above his and cried out, "Shit!"

"Now that ain't the kind a language a kid your age should be usin'." A voice responded to his outburst from beside his bed.  The voice held authority but Dennis didn't care.

"Where's me little brother?" he yelled, gaining the interest of several older boys in the room.  

"I don't like your tone," the older boys voice seemed to be warning.

"Well I don't give a-" Dennis started.

"I'm Dock Briggs by the way, leader of the Brooklyn newsies."  He spat in his palm and held out his hand.

Dennis' stomach dropped, he had just screamed at the leader of the group he was hoping to join.  This couldn't be good.  He gulped, "Dennis Bennett."  He spit shook with the older boy.

"Well since you've calmed down a little why don't you tell me why you and the kid were out on the streets last night.  Ya woulda frozen ta death if me boys hadn't found you."

"Tell me where he is first." Dennis demanded.

Dock sat down at the edge of the bunk.  "He's downstairs with a few a me boys.  Don' worry, they won't hurt him or nuthin'.  I just wanted you to get some sleep an' he'd have woken you up by now.  Now, answer my question."

"We ran away.  Me an' Gabe.  Our dad beats us an' me mom died a few months ago.  She told me 'fore she died that she wanted us to get out if he beat us again.  I let 'im hit me but he near threw Gabe across the room last night so I hit him with a fire poker an' we ran."

"Your brother got a full name?"

"Gabriel Conlon.  We'se got different last names 'cause I was born 'fore my parents got married.  I was sorta hopin' we could be newsies but I guess after the way I talked to you…"

"If I kicked kids out for that this lodgin' house would be empty.  You can stay.  I'll take the two a you'se sellin' wit' me tomorrow an' show ya the ropes."  He paused, "Are you always a little rebel like that?"

Dennis shrugged, "Just sorta picked it up somewhere.  My mom was like it too."

"That's what we'll call ya then.  Rebel.  It fits ya.  Your bruddah will get a name eventually.  Newsie names can't be changed so he'll hafta go by Gabe for a while.  I got some rules for you though, an' I leave it to you ta explain 'em to him."

"Alright," Rebel agreed, satisfied that they had somewhere to stay.

"You sell wit' a partner 'til youse at least eleven, an' you gotta learn to fight wit' me boys an' teach your brother.  I don' care where you sell but don't go into another borough, an' be back here by ten sharp.  Don' get in fights if youse can help it but if someone challenges you youse gotta win.  Will your dad be lookin' for you and your bruddah?"

"Probably, but ain't no way I'se goin' back there.  I won't let 'im take Gabe either."

"Almost everyone here knows you two is brothers.  Afta this though I don't want you telling any of the other newsies.  It's too risky.  You got it?"

"Yeah," Rebel stood and followed the older boys downstairs.  Gabe was sitting in front of a fireplace with several other boys.  Rebel pulled his brother into his lap and sat there, being introduced to countless newsies and trying to keep names straight.

*            *            *

Being younger Gabe got used to the change a lot faster than his brother, and seeing as he was too young to sell he spent every afternoon selling with an older newsie.  He sold with Pages near the pub, went to the bridge with Toro, and even sold with Dock occasionally.  Somehow his young mind comprehended that he was only to call Dennis Rebel form now on and that they could not act like brothers unless the two were alone.

He was learning to be a Brooklyn newsie too.  That meant he was learning to fight and use a slingshot.  When he came in one night with a black eye that a boy his age named Roman had given him Rebel nearly had a fit.  Gabe only complained that it didn't hurt all that much.  He was good with a slingshot too, and soon had one of his own.  Many of the boys wanted to bring him selling with them because he was so cute all the ladies would stop and buy his papes.

No one really realized the inward changes that he was going through.  He'd seen deaths through illness and injury by the time he was six.  The child he had once been was being forced to grow up just as fast as his brother had.  He was hardening in a way, becoming one of the hard, cold, and commanding boys that Brooklyn was known for.  Violence entered his mind too, as he displayed one day on another boy.

A group of younger boys was quickly growing and were soon allowed to sell by themselves in the afternoons.  There was always an older newsie nearby anyway.  It had started with just Gabe and Roman, but grew with the additions of Pickpocket (who was very close with Gabe), Swinger, Royal, Ace, Wiser, and Scruff.  The little band of boys sold their papers in the park everyday.  There was some fighting for leadership, and they rotated the roles daily.

"Get outta me way!" Roman yelled at Gabe one day, "It's my turn to be leader."

"No," Gabe claimed, "You were yesterday.  That means it's my turn."

Roman walked and stood directly in front of Gabe; he was nearly a head taller.  "Why should a shrimp like you ever be leader?  No one would ever think of making you leader.  You're so short any of the other newsies could just step on you and squash you like a bug."

Gabe's face went almost a deadly calm, "What'd you say?" he asked in a voice matching his look.

"I said I'se leader and there's nuthin' you can do about it, Shorty." Roman shoved Gabe back slightly. 

He'd given a name, but Gabe wasn't about to accept being called 'shorty' for the rest of his life.  His deep blue eyes glazed over to an icy glare.  Without a second thought he launched himself at the taller and stronger boy, with such fury that they were soon a ball of dust with punches being thrown and obscene words being muttered.

Dock was first on the scene, as he had been selling at a nearby street corner, and seen the signs of a fight.  He pulled the two apart and was surprised to see that Roman was the more injured of the two.  Gabe was pulling against the leader's grasp wanting to fight more.  "Ey, what's goin' on here?"

"Roman named Gabe 'Shorty'." Pickpocket said.  

"I ain't gonna be called 'shorty' by no one!" Gabe yelled, "I'll be leader of Brooklyn one day. All you just wait and see!"

"With and attitude like that maybe you will," Dock released him but with a warning look.

"But his names Shorty.  I thought newsie names were permanent after they were given." Roman slowed with them as they reached the lodging house.

"Usually," Dock said, "but he beat you in a fight over it so it ain't."  He smiled as Rebel approached, "Lookit what the kid did to Roman.  Gonna have a nice shiner and some scars from it."

Rebel shot Gabe a look.  He accepted that Gabe was going to be violent and a fighter. He just wanted him to fight scabs, not the other Brooklyn newsies. 

"Well Gabe," Dock said, "Choose youse selling spot."

"Huh?"

Dock explained, "When a newsie wins his first real fight he gets to choose a selling spot for the next day.  The newsie who has it has to give it up too.  So where d'you wanna sell tomorrow?"

"The Brooklyn Bridge!" Out of all the spots in the city that was Gabe's favorite.

Several cries of protest were heard.

"What?!  That's the best spot in Brooklyn!"

"He can't sell there!"

"The kid sure knows how to pick 'em!"

"That's it!" Dock yelled, snapping his fingers, "You'se got a newsie name!"

Gabe looked up at him confused.

"Since you picked such a good spot that's just what we'll call you, Spot."

Rebel nodded, even though his brother seemed to think it was a sissy name, "Don' worry Spot," he tried out the name, "In a few years just hearing the name Spot Conlon will strike fear in the hearts of any newsie in New York!" 

The name stuck and that was what he was known as to all the newsie.  Over the next year he quickly overcame the other newsies in fighting ability and talent with a slingshot.  Dock actually made him take care of the newer newsies who were coming in.

*            *            *

Like his brother Rebel also caused a few upsets.  He picked up everything he was taught quickly and while he was not as violent as his brother if he was provoked he was probably more deadly.  By the time he was twelve he'd broken one boy's jaw, and another's arm.  He often carried the gold-tipped cane, and had very accurate aim.  He still tried to keep his younger brother out of trouble and usually sold near him.  During one week in spring money was tight and they couldn't make rent and get food.  The two of them came up with a trick to steal some.  It worked for the first two days but on the third they missed sight of the police officer standing nearby.    He grabbed Rebel by the back of the shirt.  Rebel screamed for his brother to run, but Spot, being slightly on the short side couldn't beat the police to a nearby alley.  

  They were sentenced to the house of refuge for three months.  Until that point the two had only heard stories of how horrible the place was.  They were separated the minute they got there and Rebel didn't see his brother for more than a week.  He almost expected Spot to be covered with bruises when he finally saw him again.  Spot had a few bruises but nothing that he hadn't had before.  Before they'd been there a month Rebel knew to get out of there, Spot was sick so it wasn't exactly the best place to be.  They were in the same room by then though.

"I don't want you to get sick in here," Rebel complained one night.

"Oh, and you think I wanted to get sick.  I swear the roof of the lodging house is probably warmer than here.  I'll be damned if I'm gonna let myself die here."

"Don't you dare talk like that!"

"You mean swearing or talkin' about dying?"

"Both, you're seven, you shouldn't have to worry about that stuff yet."

Spot narrowed his eyes, "Why not Dennis, I mean three a my friends have died in the past few years."

"Well, you'se too tough, it ain't gonna happen to you."

"You wanna get outta here then?" It was their roommate Stretch who asked.

"A couise, why?" Rebel looked at the boy who was staring out the window.

"Well, in here we'se got a bit of a code to help everyone out, you'se two have upheld it for the past few weeks so I'll help you.  Every Friday a group of nuns come to deliver food, an' Snyder's men ain't allowed to touch the carriage.  That's tomorrow night, all you gotta do is get outta dishwashing early."

"Thanks for the advice."

Stretch grinned, "No problem, it gives us a reason to cause some trouble 'round here."

  Rebel helped his brother into a nun's wagon the next night.  When they got out a few blocks later they both ran as though their lives depended on it.  Rebel slung his brother onto his back when he began to lag behind.  A figure was approaching them from farther down the alley.  He pulled back into a small space between several large crates and hushed Spot when he complained.  

"That's dad," Rebel whispered, recognizing the man.  There were two more approaching from the end of the alley.  Even as the attack began Rebel didn't make spot turn away.  If anything he wanted his brother to end up too tough; it was safer that way.  It took the two men less than five minutes to overpower the third man and with a quick twist they'd broken his neck.  The two boys stayed hidden until they were sure everyone was gone, and started walking again.

"Rebel, we gotta go to the cops!" Spot whispered frantically.

"We can't." Rebel's answer was short.

"But, he just killed that guy."

Rebel was scared out of his mind and turned to his brother pushing him tightly up against a wall, "What're we gonna tell them Spot, that we just escaped from the refuge and watched our father kill some rich guy in an alley.  I mean first of all they'll send us back to the refuge, probably for longer than before, and when we get out we'll be sent right back with Dad.  Is that what you want?"  He shook his brother as he spoke.

"No," Spot admitted.

"We don't say a word about this to nobody, you hear me?"

"Yeah."  As Rebel started walking again he followed.  

They reached the lodging house only minutes later.  It was well past curfew but Rebel was sure someone would be awake.  He knocked loudly at the door and heard a few loud protests from inside.  Dock opened the door a moment later with a tired look on his face, wearing nothing but his long johns.  His eyes widened a little, "Get in here!  What the hell are you doing outside in this weather!?"

"Got out of the refuge," Rebel managed to mumble.

Their leader almost smiled, "Well, no wonder you and the kid look almost half starved then.  Let's get you something to eat."

It was barely a month later that Dock left.  Their leader had been talking about getting a real job for a while and had found work on some type of boat.  Not to the surprise of many he left Rebel in charge.  The boy was very intelligent and organized, as well as one of the best fighters so he was an obvious choice.  He threw his brother in charge of any new recruits and often laughed at how seriously Spot took his job of making sure everyone was in by curfew.  It was really a funny scene around Spot.  He'd claimed the Brooklyn Bridge as a permanent selling spot and most of the boys, even older, were scared of him.  It confused a lot of them that Rebel could actually control him, but then, they didn't know the secret.

Blackjack came to them less than six months after Rebel became leader.  He reported in to Spot but was very close with Rebel.  They were the only two who knew his reason for coming.  Supposedly his family situation was horrible, just his dad, and if he stayed he was in his room all the time.  His father was powerful so the cops often found him and returned him to his home.  Rebel had almost three years on Blackjack but they were close, Blackjack was third in command when he was around, and highly respected with his skill at cards.

Rebel was a fair ruler, but he served with the hard hand of any Brooklyn ruler.  His boys trusted him and came to him with larger problems.  Boys were praised for their useful abilities, and punished when the trouble they caused was big enough.  As I said he was fair most of the time, but God help you if you got on his bad side.  Once his temper was lit his wrath would be unleashed. There would be blood at least and often broken bones to mark these occasions.  Spot was violent as well, 'soaking' anyone who challenged him in the younger ranks, but he was punished for fighting as well as any other boy, no brotherly privileges.  The one way he helped his brother was with his eyes.  Spot's glare was perhaps his deadliest weapon.  His eyes were stone hard and blue; it seemed like to slabs of ice were staring at you.  His look had the power to silence many and intimidate even the toughest boys.  All that were new saw him as some puny kid who would never amount to anything but quickly crumpled under that glare.  He could get the truth out of any liar or spy and stare down any opponent with those unnerving eyes.  That is until one night.

He was practicing with his slingshot in the loft when Blackjack got back.  He'd given no reason for needing to be out late so Spot was ready to give him the business.  He pulled a small child out into the dim light with him.  A girl barely as tall as Spot and just as scrawny.  

"Who is she?" he asked, immediately glaring at her, trying to show her he was boss.

"This is my sister.  I had to get her out of the house." He gave Spot both a reason for being late and an answer to his question.

"What exactly does your old man do to you?" Spot asked, wondering what on earth would possess Blackjack to bring a little girl to the Brooklyn lodging house.  "What's your name kid?" he asked the girl, acting as though she were inferior.

"Brooke Lynn." She responded with just as much attitude.

"No kid, I'se Brooklyn." Over the past several months many boys had referred to him as Brooklyn because he was the paradox for what a Brooklyn newsie should be

"Spot, her name is Brooke.  Our fathers last name was Lynn." Blackjack explained

"She don't got a newsie name." He was surprised; she was after all the sister of his brother's best friend.

"I been tryin' to think a one but nuthin' fits.  I call her En Brooklyn, but that ain't a good newsie name."

"What's it mean?"

"In Brooklyn." Andres looked around absently, "Maybe you could think a one tomorrow."

"Can she shoot?" Before Blackjack could answer Spot pulled out a slingshot.  "Can you shoot this?"

"Yes," she matched his tone.  Spot watched Blackjack give her shoulder a warning tap.

Spot placed the slingshot in her palm and placed three bottles on the rafters, "Show me."  He showed her where to back up to and gave her three marbles.  She took aim and hit each one perfectly.  Spot was impressed but didn't show it.

"What about cards?"

"She's the only one who can beat me at Blackjack occasionally and she beats me at poker all the time."

"Alright, she can stay.  We'll think of a name tomorrow."  He looked her in the eye and she met his gaze to which most others would look away from.  "Welcome to the newsies Brooke."  He spit in his palm and held out his hand.

She copied his action and nodded to him with a smirk similar to his own, only succeeding in making him more interested in what kind of life she'd possibly had.

He complained to his brother that night about the girl, also filling him in about what to expect the next day.

Rebel just laughed, "Well, get used to it Spot, not everyone's gonna be as wounded by that gaze as the other boys.  Personally I hope she can challenge you at a thing or two."

The next day Spot aptly named her for her speed with her fist into an older newsie's face.  One of the few boys Spot didn't like so he really didn't mind that much, seeing as Mitchell was one of the few newsies he didn't like.  

Hotshot, as she was now to be called was pushed into selling with either her brother or Pickpocket and Spot.  Like he did she was silenced with a secret; she couldn't tell anyone outside Brooklyn that she was related to Blackjack.  Despite the dislike he had for her at first Spot grew to like her over the next several days.  She often chose to sell with him more because he and Pickpocket were near her age.  He had to admit the girl was spunky and had an attitude that was different then most girls her age.  Had he known the events that would occur over the next hundred years he would have called her a tomboy and thought she'd been born in the wrong century.  He watched the police take her and her brother away, but knew she'd be back; Blackjack always was.

She was soon, and each time she returned she seemed slightly tougher than before.  Rebel was meanwhile working with Blackjack and Wise on something.  Wise's younger cousin Wiser, who was a year older than Spot were the only newsies who went to school.  It was too late for many of the boys Rebel's age to learn a lot, but Spot's generation were forced to sit in a room with them every evening and learn whatever the older boys were learning in school.  Rebel wanted his younger brother and friends to have more of an opportunity than he had.  

The group that had been known as Spot's 'little' group had grown as well.  Not only did it include Pickpocket, Hotshot, Wiser, and Roman but also had nearly a dozen more members.  The whole group made up an army of sorts that could discourage almost any other group.  They had all bases covered; muscle, fighting skill, brains, wit, and talent.  Rebel had no doubt that one of them would be leader and they'd become the pride of Brooklyn after he left.

Rebel meanwhile, was having trouble controlling a few of his boys.  Mitchell had become increasingly restless after a_ girl _had been allowed in.  Rebel was constantly arguing with the younger boy and knew Spot would have problems later.  He also wanted to halt the hostility between Brooklyn and the Bronx.  Flick Maddel was named for his abilities with a switchblade and had a burning hatred for Brooklyn newsies.  Flick and his gang had injured several of both Rebel and Spot's friends and Rebel didn't like having to worry about his boys.  He worried about Spot the most.  While his brother could fight he was still his little brother.  He was scared Spot would get into to much trouble to handle by himself, and if Hotshot was with him, well that was a different story.  The girl had an attitude and usually didn't think things through before she spoke.  Rebel knew Spot very well, the boy was tough but he was tougher.  Spot still thought that being nice to boys from the other boroughs and Rebel knew Flick's boys would take advantage of that.

Spot developed a habit of going off with boys from other boroughs too.  He had a few friends in Manhattan, Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins.  The two boys were selling near the bridge one day and Race made a bet, which he lost and therefore offered to buy Spot lunch.  The two became frequent visitors to Brooklyn for Manhattan business and just to hang out.  

By the time Spot was twelve Rebel and his council of sorts had already decided that he would be the best choice for the next leader.  Sure, he still had a few lessons to learn, but he was closer than any of the others.  It was also during this time that Hotshot returned with news that her brother had been killed.  Leaving his brother to help her sell the next day Rebel went to the graveyard where her mother and siblings had been buried to look for his friends grave.  He couldn't find it though.  Neither could he find the grave of her stepfather.  He hated the man with a passion after hearing what he'd done to Hotshot and Blackjack.  Before she was caught again there was a startling revelation in Spot and Rebel's lives.  

Rebel had been having more trouble than usual with Flick and the Bronx lately.  Every day another boy came home sporting a new bruise or cut.  He was under an unbelievable amount of stress, which meant Spot was as well.  Not many of the boys knew they were brothers, and though he couldn't show it Spot still looked up to his brother, still wanted to take some of the weight upon himself.

He came in one day with a black eye and some cuts from fighting one of the Bronx boys.  Rebel only groaned when he saw the younger boy.  Spot was enough trouble as it was.  As he heard it Pickpocket and Hotshot had been selling with him and an older Bronx newsie had come up to them.  Spot had run his mouth.  The other guy had only gotten off about two good shots before the trio was on him, the ring he wore caused the scratch.

"Out so I can talk to him," Rebel snapped at everyone in the room, "Pickpocket, Hotshot, go get some water and washcloths."  Everyone left in a hurry.

"Gabe, what the hell is wrong with you, picking a fight with Flick like that.  I know you think you're tough but he coulda killed you!"

"What did you want me to do!" Spot screamed back.  He could see his two friends at the door but they were going to wait until the worst was over to come in.  "You want me to just let that bastard harass us."

"That's exactly what I want you to do kiddo; that way I can make sure _you_ don't get yourself killed!"

"I'm not gonna go out there and get myself killed, Reb.  Do I look that stupid to you!  I know he's dangerous!  You think you gotta be the leader all the time and take everything on yourself.  It don't work that way, I mean I barely sold out all this week trying to figure out a way to help.  And then this happens and you blow up at me.  I don't need this right now.  It ain't _your job to watch me no more; I can take care of myself."_

As if a sudden switch had been flipped something in him changed.  His breath became short, as though he'd run the entire way from the refuge to the lodging house without taking a breath. "Reb," he managed, trying to take in another breath.  His breath was getting shorter and shorter.  His chest seemed to be tightening, as though some large snake or something was constricting around him.  His breaths were shallow and hard to take.  For the first time in his life he was actually truly scared that something was wrong with him.  He turned his wide eyes toward his brother, looking for help for the first time in years.

Rebel froze.  Was he really so wrapped up in making sure nothing happened to jeopardize his leadership that he had missed his own brother getting sick.  The look of fear in Spot's eyes was what stopped this train of thought.  When Spot got sick his look only expressed one thought, boredom.  Never one of being tired or crummy, just bored.  Now there was the unmistakable look in spot's eyes, one of pure, unadulterated fear.  Those wide blue eyes turned to him.  Rebel could only look back into them.  He had no earthly idea what was wrong with his brother, and no idea how to help.

"Try to match my breathing, Spot." A voice whispered in his ear.  "I know you're scared, just try to match my breathing."  Hotshot stood next to him and took a deep breath placing her hand on his shoulder.  She then made herself take some shorter breaths, lengthening each one.  "Relax Spot, just breath, in and out, in and out.  You're doin' better, c'mon."

Within a few minutes his breathing was back to normal.  Spot sank into a nearby chair, still slightly shaken.

Hotshot walked over to Rebel and hit him hard in the chest.  He stepped back a bit shocked.  "Why the hell are you getting' him all stressed when he's got asthma, huh?"

"I didn't know," Rebel snapped at her, "What's he got?"

"Asthma, it's a breathing condition."  She turned to face Spot, "that the first time you've ever had an asthma attack?"

He nodded.

"I doubt his are brought on by physical activity, but stress, nervousness and anxiety are all triggers."  She glared at Rebel for a moment.

"Where can we get him medicine to make it go away?" Rebel asked.

"Ya can't.  It ain't contagious neither.  All he's gotta do is learn to control his breathing and have some people around here who can help him.  I wouldn't exactly go and tell all the boys though.  He'll be outta the running for next leader if ya do."

Spot was sitting on the bunk in Rebel's private room when he came in that night.  Spot was just sitting there, staring across the room and picking at the threadbare blanket his brother had acquired.  "I thought I was gonna die." He stated, "I seriously did."

Rebel nodded, "Well, at least now a few of us can relish in the fact that you're mortal like us and not some God."  He grinned at his brother's face, "I was worried too kiddo.  Stop worrying about Flick and the Bronx.  I'll tell you if somthin's up."  He opened the door.  "Now go get to bed."

Spot's asthma attacks weren't common, but they weren't a rarity either.  Other than Hotshot and Pickpocket, Swinger, Royal, Wiser, Scruff and Roman knew about them, and how to help.  They were the boys who stood behind Spot and fully supported him being the next leader.  It didn't help that the Bronx's threats only increased over the next six months.

Finally in late February the message that Rebel had been waiting for came, bearing one short message.  'Get out of Brooklyn if you want to live' was scrawled across a sheet of paper.  Rebel wrote a short, rude reply for the Bronx messenger to send back.  

"Flick will show up any day now," he told his boys at dinner that night, "I want everyone to be careful.  Everyone sell in groups, not just the kids.  I don't want a single god damned casualty on account of him.  Carry your weapons, and be prepared.  This is probably gonna end in a fight you guys, I'm almost sure of it.  Anyone who ain't willing to fight should go over to Manhattan now, but don't expect to come back after the fighting's over.  Lastly, if anyone, _anyone_, sees Flick in Brooklyn come find me immediately and rally the others to get back here."  As he paused before sitting down he looked over his boys, not a sole moved to leave.  They were all in it until the end.     

The next week was fill of threats and injuries to both sides.  Flick's boys were traveling in and out of Brooklyn and a good amount of fights broke out.  Rebel wasn't surprised when after almost two weeks Roman approached him.  The bow was nursing a bloody nose and had a small cut running up the back of his arm, one that reached from his wrist to about three inches below his elbow.  

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.   Roman was the biggest of the younger boys, and not easily beat in a fight, usually coming out without a scratch.

"I ran into Flick," he said slowly, adding a few choice adjectives, "Guys really good with a switchblade that's all I have to say about it.  He said that he and his boys will be at the Brooklyn pier at eight, and that they're gonna take Brooklyn."

The grin that was on Rebel's face faltered, go gather the others and tell everyone to get back to the lodging house for lunch, we ain't sellin' the afternoon edition.  If you wanna fight tonight I suggest to have Wise take care of those cuts."

Roman nodded and ran off.  Rebel watched him for a moment before walking through a maze of allies that any newsie could be familiar with.  He ducked into the back of a shop.  "Razor," he said to the man working in back, "I need some blades, good and sharp."

"Bronx finally decide to come try their luck at a fight?" the younger boy asked, he wasn't quite Rebel's age but almost.

"Yeah, you gonna come?"

"I get outta work at five; I'll come then.  It's on the pier, right?"

"Where else."  He left through the back and made his way quickly back to the lodging house.  It was starting to rain, the perfect weather for a fight.

They started getting back an hour later.  First the older boys, then Spot and the boys his age, and the younger ones.  They all knew what was going on.  That was one of Roman's faults; he talked too much.

Razor arrived at five with the switchblades and knives, all recently sharpened.  Boys who didn't get blades found clubs or slingshots to use as weapons.  Rebel picked his best shooters to attack from the roof and from the fire escapes.  He desperately wanted to keep Spot in the lodging house, the brotherly side of him coming out, but that would give something away.  Besides Spot was easily one of the best fighters.  He gave two words to Spot and his band as they collected themselves with weapons, "Watch yourselves."

"They ain't gonna fight fair," he told Spot, "but when the leader goes down the fight's over so whoever backs down first, me or him.  I ain't gonna back down.  I might not come back in here Spot."

"You will," Spot said in a strained voice, "He can't beat you."

"Well if I don't my orders are for you to take over, got that."  He received a nod in return.  "I'm just glad Hotshot ain't here.  She'd be too hard to keep in the longing house.  I swear that girl is gonna cause a few major fights before she's done bein' a newsie."

All the Brooklyn newsies were assembled outside when the Bronx came into view.  Those with slingshots were hidden too far back on the roof to be seen and those who were armed for the fire escapes sat just inside windows.  The Bronx knew they'd be there though.  

Flick Maddel was hard as nails and looked it.  He led his boys down the pier with a sneer on his face.  There was no doubt in Rebel's mind that he had at least five switchblades hidden in the folds of his clothes.  "So Bennett," Flick drawled, "you call that an army.  You might as well surrender now."  He glanced at Spot and the younger boys, some of whom (Spot included) still looked a bit scrawny and younger than they were.  "Why don't you send the little kids inside where they won't get hurt, _yet."   _

"Did you come here to talk or to fight?" Rebel's voice was even but vented anger as he spoke.

It seemed as if Flick's first switchblade jumped into his hand from out of thin air.  He flipped it open and pointed it across the open space between the two leaders, directly at Rebel's chest.  It was a sign that he was ready.

Rebel pulled his father's cane out of his belt loop, tossing it and catching it near the heavy gold tip.  At the same time those with the slingshots stepped out of their hiding and took aim.  Boys with switchblades and clubs readied their weapons.  Flick's boys did the same.  Each side stood silent for a moment, until Flick charged; then all hell broke loose.

Flick had crossed the distance between him and Rebel in seconds.  The other boys knew not to interfere with those two as they fought.  The other boys moved toward each other in a wave of bodies. The two waves met with a crash.

Though Flick had insisted that Rebel's army was small it was the Bronx who were outnumbered.  Other than the actual water falling form the sky there was also a rain of marbles coming down, each carefully aimed.  The eerie sound of metal striking metal filled the air, cries following many or these as one boy or another lost their hold and his opponents blade sliced into his arm.  

More marbles flew through the air.  A never-ending wave of them was continuously raining down on them, though it was now becoming unclear to those on the roof who was from Brooklyn and who was the Bronx. Constant thuds and cracks were heard as those with clubs slammed into anything and anyone they could get near.  Bones broke and blood erupted from the injured.

Many of the boys were losing their hold on weapons.  Those that didn't have any just fought with their hands.  Several of the Bronx boys had sets of brass knuckles to their name.  A constant sound of metal on flesh and cried of pain echoed through the scene.

The Bronx boys were unfamiliar with their surroundings, or at least not as familiar with them as the Brooklyn boys were.  The Brooklyn boys knew every bump and gully in the boards, and what to avoid when wet.  The wooden boards became slick and slippery quickly and while the Bronx faltered and slipped Brooklyn kept its sure footing.  Several splashes were heard as they tumbled Bronx boys into the harbor.  Some splashed in after to continue the fighting and only make it harder for their opponents.

Screams filled the air and yelling echoed along the entire pier.  The whistles of the police wouldn't be heard for at least another hour.  They liked to see the street rats take care of each other so they didn't have to do the dirty work.  There was not a single boy left without injury.  Bruises, black eyes, and long, deep gashes were everywhere.  Blood bathed each boy from at least one place on his body.

Spot watched as a Bronx boy forced Pickpocket over the edge of the pier with a club.  He used a running tackle to propel himself and the boy into the deep, murky water as well.  The two of them surfaced at the same time.  Spot took hold of the boy by the front of his shirt and launched a fist into his face.  The boy reeled away, swimming under the pier as soon as he gained his senses.  Spot reached out and pulled his friend with him to the ladder.  "You ok?" he yelled to be heard above the noise.

"I'll be fine," Pickpocket yelled back quickly scaling the ladder but ducking at the top when another boy swung at him with a blade.  Spot gave his friend a quick push.  Pickpocket flipped over the top, back onto the pier, giving the boy a swift kick to the stomach.  Spot pulled himself up next to Pickpocket and went after the boy with his fists having lost the blade Rebel had given him.  He pounded on the boy every time he left a large enough area or his chest, stomach or face exposed.  Pickpocket went on to help someone else.  

The battle was fierce, but none was worse than the one Rebel was fighting.  Flick had been preparing for this moment for days.  He was ready to spill some blood, and end a life.  His reason for hate was still unclear, but it was there burning more brightly than ever.  As he moved toward Rebel the Brooklyn leader swung at him with the cane.  The heavy gold end caught his knuckle and sent his knife flying.  Another was in his hand almost instantly.

A series of short jabs followed but Rebel was quick to move.  Flick twisted and caught him good across the arm.  A cry, not even really able to be called that, escaped Rebel's lips.  But he kept moving.  He swung upwards with his cane, digging the end into Flick's cheek.  The boy growled and swung his arm in a wide arc, his blade sliding along Rebel's stomach for about six inches, pouring new blood to the wood they fought on.

Rebel knocked another knife from the boy's hand and again another one replaced it.  "What," Rebel jeered, "I thought you were a master with a switchblade." He watched the boy closely as they circled one another.

"I am," Flick hissed.

Rebel forced a chuckle, "If you were the master you'd be able to beat me with just one."

It was a challenge and Flick knew it.  He stripped his torso to his undershirt and pulled three more knives out of nowhere, dropping each to the ground in turn.  He stopped holding just one with a devilish grin crossing his face.  The lightning of the storm only illuminating the grotesque scar.  Without a second shot he launched himself at Rebel, a war cry echoing from his lungs.  Rebel took a step to the side, hoping to dodge him, but it wasn't enough.  The impact sent both boys skidding several feet along the pier's wooden surface, surely causing a number of scratches.  Flick was on his knees leaving Rebel on his back.  He lifted up his switchblade to bring it down into Rebel's chest.  Rebel swung up his cane and the blade dug into it, leaving a horrific score in the heavy, blackened wood.  A hiss escaped Rebels lips and he tried to flip the boy off of him.  Flick just laughed and pushed downward with the blade.

After a moment the Bronx leader seized an opportunity to swing his blade around and bring it down painfully through the outside of Rebel's arm, a deep, jagged cut.  Rebel yelled out in pain and several boys near them momentarily paused in their fighting.  He swung his cane around brining the end into Flick's stomach and knocking him backward, onto the slick wood of the pier. The boy's switchblade flew from his hand and out of his reach.  Rebel dropped his cane and lunged at the boy, bringing his fist across his enemy's jaw.

Flick used the momentum of Rebel's punch to roll over so he was on top in the pile.  He used his arms to hold a struggling Brooklyn leader's shoulders down.  "So, I hear that little Spot kid's your brother."  Another blade appeared from nowhere.  He carefully held it inches from Rebel's neck.  "I'll make sure he's the one I torture the longest and I'll personally kill him."

With a surge of adrenaline Rebel flipped again.  He could barely hold Flick's blade away from him.  "I'll kill you 'fore I let you anywhere near him."

"I knew I was right.  You ain't gonna be able to protect him if you'se dead, an' don't worry, I'll be sure to enjoy it."  He drove his blade arm up.

"No!" Rebel yelled at the same time.  He drove his arm down on the boy's head, forcing it to the side.  A snap was heard and the body under his stilled, and went limp.  Rebel pushed himself up; it was over.  His opponent's neck was broken.  

"Flick's down," a boy nearby yelled.  Almost immediately the entire fight stopped.  One boy stepped forward and felt Flick's neck for a pulse.  "He's dead."

Rebel took several deep breaths looking over all the boys.  He picked a small boy that he knew wasn't one of his, "You, c'mere."

The young boy approached him cautiously, "What's your name?"

He swallowed, "Outrage Ameadeo."

"Where'd outrage come from?"

"Flick named me that 'cause I never get mad."

"Did you want to come here tonight?"

"No, we had to though.  He was our leader."

Rebel turned to the waiting fighter.  Outrage couldn't have been much older than Spot.  "Listen up Bronx, Outrage here is your new leader.  Anyone who wants to argue that can stay here and fight my boys some more." No one moved so he went on, "I want you all to get back home.  Come back tomorrow if anyone's missing.  Brooklyn stay out here 'til they're gone, then get inside."  He looked over all the boys as they began to move again.  Each was bloody and drenched in rain.  All winced as they moved and many limped. As the Bronx disappeared from sight his boys began to make their way inside.  

"Rebel?" Spot stopped next to his brother.

"Go inside," Rebel spoke in an emotionless voice, glaring out over the water.  He could see Spot out of the corner of his eye.  His brother was bloody and sporting several bruises.  Spot stared at him for a minute and then continued inside.  Rebel looked down at Flick's body.  He'd actually killed a man.  His hands shook as he brought them up to wipe the tears from his face.  He made his way around the pier, checking each body to see how many Brooklyn had lost.  Their only loss was the last body he came upon.  Razor lay in a pool of blood, a Bronx blade still lodged in his stomach.  Rebel dropped to his knees crying for his lost friend.  He shook with tears and whispered a prayer.  For what seemed like forever he sat there, looking over the dead boy.  The rain was already washing away the blood that had been spilled on the boards of the pier that night.

He was the first one awake the next morning and walked through the lodging house looking over his soldiers.  Spot and his crew lay on several chairs in the common room, having been too tired to make it to their beds.  He looked over his brother for injuries.  Spot's face was scratched and his eye was almost sealed shut.  His lip was busted and his arms and hands were covered with several defensive bruises.  What worried Rebel the most was the long cut across his brother's collarbone and onto his chest.  He ran a hand over Spot's damp hair.

"Mmnh…" his brother moaned and rolled his eyes open, "hey Reb."

"You ok?"

Spot nodded, "yeah."  He ran his tongue over his lips, "everyone else ok?"

Rebel shook his head, "Most of 'em.  Razor didn't make it." He looked down into his brother's eyes.  A sad look was in them but he hadn't seen Spot cry since the night they'd left home.  "There's about half a dozen Bronx guys out there.  Our fighting's definitely improved."  He pushed his brother's feet off a stool next to the chair and sat down.  "Now lemme get a look at this cut 'cross your chest.  Gonna have to bandage it to avoid infection."

Spot grumbled about not being a baby but unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way.  "'S gonna leave a pretty good battle scar."

Rebel hit his younger brother lightly and shook his head.  He wrapped a bandage around the boy's chest and then moved among the small group.  "C'mon, help me check on the rest of your boys."

Spot looked after his brother as he left the room, thinking he must have just slipped and said yours.  He pulled himself out of the comfortable warmth of the chair and trailed after his brother.

Exactly one week after that day Spot found himself being shaken awake by his older brother.  "Get up now.  Go around and wake everyone else up and get dressed.  I want the entire lodging house out back in fifteen minutes."

Spot moved to several nearby bunks waking boys off and sending them off.  He pulled on some clothes to fend off some of the cold weather that still lingered.  He hurried through the house and yelled at the boys who were not yet out of bed, yanking blankets and mattresses away from them.  He made a final sweep of the lodging house before walking out the back to where his friends were congregating.  

Rebel sat on his throne of crates looking at them.  He'd been tired and depressed for most of the week, but now he looked as though everything had been lifted.  He motioned for Spot to come stand with him.  He placed a hand on Spot's shoulder and sighed before standing to speak.  Spot caught the look in his brother's eyes and his jaw dropped open a little.  He couldn't, he wouldn't?

"I'm leaving," Rebel said, confirming Spot's fears, "I can't do this anymore and trust me, I've thought long and hard about this and I have to leave.  I don't want to, but I can't stay here after what I did last weekend.  And I will be back for visits so don't think you've seen the last of me.  Now, on to your new leader.  I'm going to leave you with someone who I think will be the best for Brooklyn.  He's got a good head on his shoulders, and he knows how to take care of himself, and you guys."  Several of the popular boys in the crowd began to brag about what they do, since they knew they were up for it.  "Spot."  

Everything stopped.

"Spot is going to be your leader, he's going to choose his own officers, and if you don't like the way he leads, well, you can always leave.  I know you all think he's just a little kid who doesn't know anything, but he's been here almost as long as I have."  He nodded, "Take care of yourselves."

Spot was lost in the crowd that swirled to the distribution center, murmuring excitedly.  All his friends were coming up to his, congratulating him, sucking up too.  As he reached the distribution and moved to get in line everyone moved out of his way to let him be first.  He waited for Pickpocket in silence.  His friend approached with an armload of papers and they began to walk out.  

Mitchell stepped in front of him, "You gonna let _her stay when she comes back?" he asked._

"Yes," Spot sneered.

Mitchell dropped his fifty papers to the ground and spat on them, "That's what I think of Brooklyn then."

Spot clenched his fists in anger but controlled himself, "Then get out."  He pushed past the older boy and took up and authoritative walk toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

Spot returned to the lodging house as soon as he had sold out the morning edition.  He would have to skip lunch, not that he'd have much of a meal either way.  He walked up to find his belongings in Rebel's room, and hopped out onto the fire escape.  He made his way quietly to the roof and found his brother sitting there.

"What're you doing up here?" Rebel didn't even turn around.

"It's my lodging house; I'll go where I please." Spot glared at his brother's back.  He couldn't help it.  Rebel had been his only family for the past nine years and now he was just leaving.

"Spot, don't be like that," Rebel groaned, "I can't stay."

"Why the hell not?" Spot yelled, "It's not like anyone's making you leave.  What about me, huh?  What am I gonna do without you?"  Rebel turned and Spot almost jumped back.  The great Brooklyn leader had been crying. "Reb?"

"I shouldn't have brought you here.  Spot I just can't stay.  I killed a guy, I mean as much as everyone hated Flick I still killed him, and it scares the hell outta me to know I'm capable of that."  Suddenly he grinned, "You'll be a better leader than me."

"No I won't."

Rebel rolled his eyes, "Trust me on this one will you.  Spot I've watched you grow up here and you couldn't do anything else if you tried.  All the boys trust you, but they're scared of you too," he laughed, "and with good reason.  One day everyone in New York is gonna know who you are."

"Ya think so."

"Of course, why else would I be leaving you in charge.  I mean it's not like I'm leaving permanently.  I'll stop by in a month or two to see how you're doing."  He was quiet for a moment, "You pick your second yet?"

Spot shook his head, "I can't decide between Pickpocket and Hotshot."

Rebel shrugged, "Than have both; I'll tell Pickpocket to move his and Hotshot's stuff into that smaller room.  And stop worrying, some of the older guys promised to help you out a little for the first few weeks with any problem guys."

"You mean Mitchell?"

"Basically."

"Then forget it; he left this morning."

Rebel nodded, "Thought he might.  I've got to go pack, but this is for you." He handed Spot their father's old cane."

Spot looked up at his brother; the cane was Rebel's prized possession.

"What?" Rebel grinned, "Every good leader needs a trademark weapon.  I'll see you around."

"See you later." Spot remained sitting on the roof for the remainder of the afternoon.  It wasn't until Pickpocket came up to find him that night that he climbed back inside.

Hotshot showed up one evening the next week in an almost hysterical state.  She told, rather than asked, Spot that she was staying permanently.  Spot and Pickpocket helped her to cut off her long hair.  Later that night she came to find him, "Where's my stuff?"

"Third floor room next to the center."

Hotshot's eyebrow went up, "Rebel left?"

Spot didn't respond but that was enough of an answer for her.

Over the next year Spot began to become more mature, in more ways than one.  When before he was used to being a complete idiot around everyone he became more serious and reserved, though there were times when he needed to joke around with his friends.  Roman and a few other boys also introduced him to several girls.  And so began the rumor of Spot's being a ladies man, the one who had a different girl each nigh.  To be truthful it wasn't much of a stretch from the truth.  Few girls could keep his attention or interest for long.  He and Hotshot had a relationship that was not known to anyone outside Brooklyn, but it couldn't really be described as a real relationship.  They had a mutual understanding that they hung out all the time.  She gave Spot space with his girls, and she flirted with some of the guys.

Several other girls followed Hotshot's lead and moved into Brooklyn; Candy, Laze, Frenchy, and Sweet among them.  Spot barely noticed that his force was growing.  He was focusing a lot of his energy on getting Mitchell's force out of Brooklyn, and out of the running for any power.  Only when they finally backed off did he have room to breathe.

Soon it was back to being in control though, Brooklyn was hosting a meeting for the leaders of all the boroughs to establish some guidelines and rules.  It was a highly eventful weekend.  It wasn't until then that Spot actually realized he had some power as a few of the boys cowered when he yelled at them for a side conversation.  

As Rebel had predicted soon enough when newsies heard the name Spot Conlon they moved out of the way and shut up.  His power wasn't limited by anything, well almost nothing.  Those who knew him back in Brooklyn, his friends, didn't bow before him.  Had they done that, however, Spot would have been nervous.  They joked around and often got into shouting matches against him, but they were smart.  They wouldn't fight him.

It was in the early summer of the year 1899 that Spot was finally dragged into another battle.  His spies form all over the city began coming in to see him the day the prices on all of the papers were raised.  Jack Kelly, and the newsies in Manhattan were planning a strike.  Sure enough Jack came walking down the pier tailed by a few other boys that afternoon.  He recognized the younger one, Boots, but the other wasn't familiar.  He also looked to have a home seeing as his clothes were neither stained nor ripped.

Boots gave Spot a few marbles, and Spot almost laughed, even after these years the younger boy was still scared.  He grinned at the kid and then turned to Jack, questioning him about the rumors.

The new boy answered for Jack, claiming that the strike was no joke.

"Oh yeah, yeah," Spot jeered, "What is this Jackie-boy, some kinda walkin' mouth."

"He is a mouth," Jack admitted, "But a mouth with a brain and if you got half a one you'll listen to what he has to say."

Spot sat back nodding for the boy to say his piece.

"Well, we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So, we're talking to newsies all around the city-"

Spot interrupted him, "So they told me, but what'd they tell you."

"They're waiting to see what Spot Conlon is doing, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsie in al of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they join and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join, I mean. well, you gotta!"

Spot smirked, You're right Jacky-boy, brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half a one. How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

Jack spoke up, "'cause I'm tellin' ya Spot."

As much as Spot wanted to help he couldn't, not yet at least, "That's not good enough Jackie boy, you gotta show me."

Hotshot approached him as the three boys left. "Why ain't you helpin' Jack?  I thought he was your friend."

"He is, but I gotta look out for Brooklyn right now.  And besides I got you to go over there and come back when they need help.  I'll help 'em, but only if they need it."

She nodded, "I'll be back tomorrow."  

It was early the next morning when she came back grinning, "I know something you don't know."

"Well, it's too early for games so spit it out."

"Pulitzer's paying that distribution manager over in 'hattan to hire some thugs to bang up the boys.  They don't know it and if you don't go help they don't stand a chance."  

Spot sighed, but called down into one of the rooms for everyone to get dressed and head to Manhattan.  He gathered several of his best shooters.  "Stay here Hotshot."

Yeah, yeah," she yelled back to him.

Over in Manhattan he and his boys climbed unnoticed onto the roofs of several buildings.  He watched as the trap unfolded and the Manhattan newsies were trapped inside the small area.  He almost laughed at how easy it was.  They definitely needed his help.  He gave a signal and several boys stood up.  He himself jumped down to a nearby fire escape and called out, "Never fear Brooklyn is here!"

Beating back the thugs was almost easier than many of their wars against other boroughs.  The older men ran as soon as they saw the Brooklyn army, armed with clubs, waiting outside.  After the celebrating had ended Spot told Jack one thing, "Me and my boys are staying, 'cause if you don't have my support this strike ain't goin' nowhere." 

He was right, with Spot's help, it did run much more smoothly.  He helped to plan the rally and was grinning with pride the entire time it went on.  He was one of the few Brooklyn boys caught, and even then it took three cops five minutes to subdue him long enough for a fourth to knock him out.  And when he woke up in a jail cell no guard that walked by was safe.  He threw a bit of a fit and injured one of the guards that entered the cell to get him for their trial.

The trial itself was an experience.  His sarcastic wit showed through and probably would have gotten him into more trouble.  At hearing they would have to spend two weeks in the refuge he nearly fell over, and probably would have done so had the others not been standing behind him.  Snyder definitely had it out for the newsie and his asthma would probably not stay at bay for the entire stay there.  He wasn't willing to let anyone else in on his secret.  Thank God Denton had been around in those days.

And finding out Jack was a traitor; it brought him back to many memories of Flick.  /he and Rebel had been friends when they were younger and it turned into a battle.  It tore something inside of him to see Jack in the scab's uniform and he went into a fit of rage.  It was good that the others had been there to hold him back, else he may have gotten enough anger and adrenaline pent up to get by the cops and kill Jack.  

It was hard to remember what made him return for the rally for all sweatshop kids.  Only three of his newsies were prepared to go if he didn't.  The argument he'd gotten into with them turned into a shouting match that the entire lodging house listened in on.  It wasn't until one of them forced Rebel's cane into the palm of his hand that he snapped out of a sort of daze.  That was it; he was going to lead them over.  Anyone who didn't follow him was as good as gone.

He ended up breaking up with Hotshot later that year; not exactly easily but it happened.  It wasn't like he really had that much of a relationship with her anyway.  There were plenty of girls around for him to go after, but none of them held his interest.  Then she introduced him to Canada.  She was older than Spot by about three months, was tall for a girl with short coppery hair and hazel eyes.

The girls he'd been used to were ones who threw themselves at him and very outspoken girls.  Unlike his often loud followers Canada was shy at first when they met.  By the end of the evening, however, the two were chatting away as if they'd known each other for years.  She was intensely melodramatic and joked around a lot that night.  Unlike his other girls she wasn't willing to be one of his one-night stands, which caught his attention.  She stood up for what she wanted, and on many occasions dragged him to church with her.

She was smart; she understood the way Spot ran his newsies, and the way everything worked.  Canada ended up spending a lot of time in Brooklyn, usually selling the afternoon edition there.  She quickly got used to Spot's demanding attitude, and the strict penalties he gave out to his boy.  He became accustomed to her habit of blowing everything out of proportion and habit of paying more attention to her books than to him.  Once you saw them together you began to realize how well they complimented one another.

Rebel had been only eighteen when he left Brooklyn to find a new life.  Spot was nowhere near ready to leave when he turned eighteen.  It may have been that he couldn't picture himself doing anything else that kept him there so long.  He often found himself staying at Rebel's apartment until all hours of the night, however, the two of them talking about everything.  Rebel's wife Lily was always there, and chatted with them constantly, even more when Spot brought Canada.  Rebel's apartment was nicer now; Lily's father was a rich lawyer, a Mr. Nathaniel Edwards, and Rebel had received money from his father's fortune after he'd been out in jail.  Spot's money only sat in a bank.

One night he was sitting up on the roof of the lodging house, a place he often found peaceful, watching the boys below jumping off of the docks or playing card games.  He swung his legs over the edge and chuckled to himself as Specs picked Hotshot up and dropped her into the water.  

"Gabriel David Conlon!" Canada's angry voice exploded behind him, "what the hell is wrong with you!"

He turned to face her, "What?"

"I hear you've spent the last two nights with Hummingbird.  What do you have to say for yourself Spot, huh?  I thought you said you weren't going after every girl in sight anymore."

Spot laughed again, "Is that all."  The couple had a habit of going through the same discussion every week, "I can tell you right now that I'd never even look twice at that prissy little bitch.  And I most definitely have not been spending any time with her.  Who told you I did?"

"Whisper."

"Do you know why we call him Whisper?"

She grinned, "Why?"

"Because he gossips more than anyone I know, and that includes you and your friends."  He kissed Canada sweetly on the lips and pulled her up onto the wall next to him.  They made out for a while before he pulled back and spoke again, "Roman left today."

"I'm sorry Spot, I know you two were close."

Spot shrugged, "Do you think that I should be leaving soon."

She shook her head, "Nope."

"Why not?"

"Spot," she rolled her eyes, "You have lived here since you were what, three.  There's no way you're done with these boys yet.  You're at the peak of you're leadership and there's no way in hell I'm going to let you give that up."

"And when I decide I want to."

"When you decide to leave I'll be here with you."  She leaned against Spot's shoulder and he put an arm around her.  "Who're you gonna leave in charge."

"Stand," Spot said, "He's young but he real smart, knows how things work, and how to keep 'em that way."

"Hmm…" Canada smiled, "Sounds like someone I know."

"Yeah," spot smirked, "It does, doesn't it."  He stared off into space as Canada began to talk quietly about some upcoming activity over in Manhattan.  He focused not on her voice but his thoughts.  She was right though, there was a lot left to be done before he stepped down.  Since his brother had left Spot had pulled together the Brooklyn newsies, thrown out any that weren't worthy, and been part of the biggest strike to date.  It wasn't enough for him though; he had to make his life perfect, something worth learning about a hundred years from now.  He needed to live every moment to the fullest, and every day to the brink.  That was the only way to accomplish anything.  Being a newsie, and being with Canada were the only things that were important to him and he'd be damned if he'd give either up without a fight.

A/N: Another chapter, finally, you're probably thinking.  I sincerely thank anyone who actually took the time to read all of this, and I am going to start trying to cut back chapters, 20ish pages is a little long, unless of course you guys like them that way.  As you can probably see if you read all of my stories I'm working on a few others at the moment, and this is really tedious to write.  I may end up discontinuing it eventually but I'll try not to.  Expect updates to be few and far between for now, maybe I'll have more time in the summer.

I hope you all liked Spot and Rebel.  I'm sort of surprised no one has been guessing Spot, seeing as he's a very popular character, and Lange, if you're reading this, I'm sorry you're not in this much but I'm trying to make it go along with the other stuff I wrote, and your scene is a very important one.  Please tell me all of you loved Asthmatic!Spot.  

Now on to shoutouts:

Kaylee:  You're smart in thinking Jack won't come in until later, exactly how I plan it.

CC: Glad you like it, if you leave another review care to be more specific in what you liked.

Dreamy: I actually have girlfriends for all the guys except Les and Snipes, sorry about that.  As for the Race story, Dude, maybe when I have time I'll start, 'cause y'know he's very cool with the Boston accent.

Kasin:  I'm sorry to have confused you.  The thing is that the Manhattan newises thought Hotshot was a girl until she went over there in the beginning of PSAPT, so basically if Race went over there when he was fifteen he would have thought she was a guy because she dressed like one. 

Laze:  Ah, but PSAPT is finished now, I think I just got a real Racetrack inspiration all of a sudden back then.

Frenchy: Thank God for translation sites is all I have to say.  That woulda been wicked hard to translate all by myself.

GG:  Everyone seems to like Blink for some odd reason.

Ok, all, so vote for shorter or long chappies and guess who's next.  Hinthintitsnotblinkhinthint.

Forever roaming the rooftops,

~Hotshot~~~


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